After The Storm
by mildlyholmes
Summary: In 1980 Soviet Russia, renowned opera singer Christine Daaé is dismayed when her husband Erik, a discharged KGB spy, returns from war shattered beyond repair. In their world of tragic love and dauntless devotion, where all is so easily torn apart, these fragile and lost souls must learn each other once more before it is too late. —A tale of love, loss and healing. EC.
1. Prologue

**SUMMARY:** _"The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war."_

In Soviet Russia, the year 1980, renowned opera singer Christine Daae learns just how painfully, horribly true those words could be when her husband Erik, a discharged KGB spy returns from his commission to Afghanistan shattered beyond repair. In their world of tragic love and dauntless devotion, where nothing is as it seems and all is so easily torn apart, these fragile and lost souls must learn each other once more, to mend what has been broken before everything is lost forever.

(Credits to the lovely Masked Man 2 for their help with the summary!)

* * *

 **A/N:** Hello! Welcome to my newest story! This is yet another little historical piece from me, not as specific as my Berlin Wall one, though. Since there are hardly any modern, Cold War (ish) fics of Erik and Christine, I decided to write my own little AU. Hopefully I can capture your interest!

Erik and Christine are both Russian, if it is not obvious, and Erik works as a spy in the KGB. This is set during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, and will center around the Afghan War as chapters unravel. This is set roughly around the 1970s-80s; this particular scene is in late-1980.

Unbeta'd and once again written in the middle of the night. Apologies for any mistakes.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album _Sigh No More_. The song featured in this fic is called  After The Storm—beautiful song. Have a listen.

* * *

 _And after the storm,_

 _I run and run as the rains come_

 _And I look up, I look up,_

 _On my knees and out of luck,_

 _I look up._

* * *

It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, skies clear and bright. For once, the air seemed warmer than usual; she had not even needed to don the usual coat over her sweater as she left the empty flat for rehearsals that morning. At least Erik had the insight to pick a home a short distance away from the theatre—even if thinking about him brought a sharp ache to her chest.

Each day at the Bolshoi Theatre was the same for Christine. She would warm up with the rest of the cast, stretching her voice with scales. Every warm up was followed by a brief rendition of one of the ensemble pieces before everyone would go their separate ways. The ballerinas would occupy the stage, practicing their _pointe_ and flitting about; the chorus would stand by the foot of the stage by the piano, harmonising together; the director rushing about, ordering a change here, a set piece there; the backstage crew running after him, hastily complying with his orders and ensuring that the curtains did not close at inopportune moments again.

The main cast would be receiving individual direction, or be rehearsing by themselves, or lead a scene if need be. Opera was oftentimes difficult to stage, and with modernity had come the need for a new direction to the classics of Tchaikovsky, Verdi, Wagner. Suffice to say, Christine would be thoroughly exhausted by the end of the day; being the lead soprano was taxing, and she was always fortunate enough to be able to prepare herself a small meal before collapsing on the bed that was too big for her, curling into pillows that smelt less and less of him as each day passed.

She didn't expect the day to go any differently. She warmed up as usual, sang her aria for the Maestro perfectly, and smiled painfully at jokes exchanged amongst the lead tenors. There was no variation to her routine; but then again, Christine was used to it.

Another day to dull the empty ache of not knowing if her husband lived or not, of not having him by her side as she ate and slept; of not being able to draw from his warmth, to sigh into his kisses and be content in the knowledge that she felt _whole_ when he was with her.

So she didn't expect the sudden shrillness of her ringtone in her bag, startling the ballet rats and causing the director to shoot an irritated glance in its direction.

"Telephones are to be turned _off_ during rehearsal times!" he barked to the cast, and Christine immediately waved an apology at him, rushing to free the telephone from her bag.

Clicking the 'answer' button, she pressed the device to her ear. "Christine Daaé speaking," she said clearly into the receiver, feeling a pang of regret of not being able to reveal her marital name. Erik had always been distressed about that, apologising profusely. But she understood; she always understood when it came to her husband.

After all, it would not do to reveal that her husband was a spy in the KGB, sent out in covert missions to service the government.

It would also not do to reveal that he was in fact the infamous Phantom, a being thought to be merely legend.

A rough, unfamiliar voice filled the speaker. _"Good morning, Madame,"_ the voice greeted. It was undoubtedly male and unrecognisable; she frowned, turning away from the stage.

"Yes. May I ask who is speaking?" she asked politely—or rather, as cordially as she could without betraying a hint of annoyance.

 _"My apologies. I'm calling from the Lviv Airport, from the state services."_

Christine took in a sharp breath.

The man carried on speaking, sounding a little too casual for the nature of the conversation. _"You are listed here as Erik Destler's emergency contact, am I correct?"_

Christine nodded quickly before realising that he couldn't see her. "Yes," she said shakily. "Where is he? Is he alright?"

 _"He has suffered from an injury that left him unable to proceed in the war, Madame. The flight carrying the injured is due to arrive anytime soon, and we require that someone is sent to fetch him."_

She was no longer listening, though; at the mention of 'injury', she had panicked, heart thudding at an alarmingly fast rate. Initially she had rejoiced at the knowledge that he was not dead, but it was slowly replaced with a new sort of fear at the idea of Erik injured. And then there was the mention of 'airport', and Christine was shouting at the director that she needed to leave _now_ , and then she was out the door.

A whip of breezy air greeted her as she pushed the doors open, hurrying out of the theatre towards the nearest bus stop. "Yes, yes," she said breathlessly into the telephone, clutching it tightly to her ear. "I'll be there to pick him up. When will he be arriving?"

 _"The flight should arrive in no longer than one and a half hours, Madame._ "

"Excellent. Thank you."

Without a thought to the man on the other line, Christine hung up and stuffed the telephone into her bag. Thankfully, public transport was easier to obtain these days—she was able to catch a bus to the railway station, where she could board a train that would take her to the airport.

Throughout the entire journey, her heart would not cease its insistent thudding. The words of the man played through her mind on loop. _He has suffered from an injury that left him unable to proceed in the war..._ She bit her lip in worry. She knew that Erik had always been careful, that throughout his years working as a dangerous asset to the KGB, he had always managed to escape without a serious injury. Of course, there were minor scratches and cuts here and there, and ever since they had married a year ago, Christine would take it on as a personal responsibility to delicately clean his wounds, making sure to bestow a kiss on each bandaged area.

Christine had never been comfortable with his position as a spy working for the government, but the Soviet government was not to be trifled with. An order was an order and he would have to carry it out no matter what it entailed. She was not stupid; she knew that he was no stranger to killing, to assassinations and threats and the likelihood of danger at every turn. When Erik had first met her after one of the concerts held by the theatre, he had always been careful to conceal his identity, to ensure that there were no links of Erik Destler to Christine Daaé. Not many knew his name apart from those in the KGB since he would don a full-faced mask in missions, concealing every part of his face apart from his startling golden irises, but Erik was not one to take chances.

She had been the first—and only—person he had confided his secret with. Granted, she had discovered it on her own, but Erik was never a social man even before he had been drafted into the war with Afghanistan, and for him to trust her implicitly with the information was monumental in itself. For three years she had kept his secret, and for three years he had returned to her safe and whole, finally coming back to her as her husband during the last year. He would never discuss his work with her, and she would never ask. They lived in the bliss of newfound love and companionship, each finding solace in the other, filling a gaping hole marked by loneliness.

And then he had been sent a notice that he was to be sent to Afghanistan to aid the army, and their bliss had been disrupted.

As she finally reached the station and boarded a train, Christine mulled over the condition she would find him in. She knew that Erik was strong; there was never a time he would complain about any of his injuries, and was careful to never let her see the full extent of his more serious ones. She would always roll her eyes at his show of pride. But for him to be sent back, to be relieved of his duties before his service would have ended...

It must have been serious. And the thought of him hurt in any way only made her anxiously look out the glass, tapping her foot impatiently as each station passed by.

Finally, the train stopped at the Lviv Airport. Christine pushed past affronted passengers impatiently, feet moving quickly in her haste. She darted through the entrance, stepping into the air-conditioned building and looking around frantically. She had only been to the airport once—to send Erik off that fateful day—and had limited knowledge of how to navigate through the building.

It took a few impatient questions before Christine found herself at Gate E, standing anxiously with her hands folded, the watch on her wrist clearly in her line of sight. She took breaths to calm her breathing as she looked around the busy airport, searching for a sign of her beloved.

After what seemed like eternity, two men donned in black emerged from the gate, pulling a stretcher along. A motionless man lay on it, unconscious but still clearly alive. Christine looked on in panic. The man had revealed nothing about his injury—what if she were to find Erik in a similar state? She didn't think she would be able to function normally if he was.

One by one, former soldiers filed out of the gate. They were all similarly dressed in the standard uniform, each donning a bandage of their own—on their arms, around their stomachs, on their legs. One man had lost both legs; he was wheeled out in a wheelchair by an attendant. But each man bore the similar expression of emptiness, hollowness.

They were walking blindly, without purpose. It was as if she was watching an army of the dead.

Christine pressed a hand to her mouth, biting into her sleeve. If she was finding herself affected by these men, she was afraid to know her reaction to seeing Erik. If he had lost his legs, or his arms, or a chunk of flesh on his abdomen, she would surely lose herself in grief for him. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to cry at the mere thought of it. And when she opened them, she saw him.

Even the hand pressed to her lips could not stifle her cry.

It was Erik, but it was not. Like every other man, he walked dejectedly, without purpose, staring into nothing. Her eyes ran over his body, checking for an injury that would surely be present, but found nothing. He was thinner, but still as fit as ever; even through the thick clothing of the uniform she recognised his wiry muscles. He walked with his back straight, his height tall and empowering, seeming regal even as his arms lay limply at his sides, ridding him of his quiet confidence she had grown to know and love.

The most obvious change, however, was that his face was wrapped in bandages. Apart from his eyes, lips and jaw, she could not see an inch of skin, and it sent an icy trickle of fear down her spine.

Erik was walking, but he wasn't seeking her out. Realising that he probably wasn't aware that she was here, Christine took a few steps in his direction, calling out, "Erik!"

Instantly his gaze whipped to meet hers. She drank the sight of his beautiful amber eyes in, never ceasing walking forwards towards him. Her Erik. He had frozen in his spot, watching her with an unreadable expression.

She stopped in front of him. He was looking at her stoically, his usual bright, fiery orbs emotionless and dead, and Christine suppressed a sob.

"Erik, you—you're here," she managed, willing for her tears not to spill. She looked up at him, taking in the sight of his bandaged face, clean and crisply applied.

Her efforts not to cry didn't work.

Unable to suppress another sob, she felt wetness graze her cheeks, blinking to clear her vision. He was _here_ , her Erik, but he was not. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he was still _there_ —in the battlefield, or spying on the Afghan bases, or in the fields with the other soldiers.

Her Erik was gone, replaced by a pained, suffering man. She raised a hand, wishing to touch his cheek, but pulling back at the last second, not wishing to hurt him. After all, she didn't know the extent to his injuries.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered, settling her hand on his shoulder instead.

It was that moment of contact that betrayed his pain. With one touch, Christine managed to draw an infinite, encompassing look of utter _devastation_ from him that left her gasping for breath.

He was hurting, her Erik, and she wasn't sure if she was enough to heal him.

Another sob escaped her lips as she pulled him towards her, wrapping her arms around his neck and fitting her body against his. It felt right to feel the hard planes of his body against hers once more, and she weeped at the feeling of being together once more, at last. Erik didn't hesitate to return the embrace, his arms holding her around the waist tightly—almost painfully. It was as if he never wanted to leave her side, to always be with her and never part.

She sobbed and sniffed and cried into his neck, repeating broken endearments over and over. "Erik, you're here, you're here." Arms tugged him impossibly closer, fingers weaved into his hair and brushed the strands, cut unevenly from his months in service. They had embraced in a similar way countless times before, and Christine found herself sobbing even harder when she didn't feel the familiar texture of his nose and lips buried against her neck, trailing kisses and breathing in her scent. Erik held her tightly, but never allowed his bandaged face to press against her skin. Whatever he had suffered, it had been agonising, and her heart was breaking for the suffering he had undoubtedly had to endure.

Both woman and man stood there in the middle of the airport, embracing until all the other soldiers had left. He never spoke a word to her, but Christine felt it the moment he had started crying from the silent shake of his frame against hers. She had not managed to suppress her own tears for him, and she stroked his hair with a shaky hand, murmuring brokenly, "Ssh, Erik. It's alright. You're here with me now—you're home. You're safe."

He simply tightened his grip around her form, trembling uncontrollably, and her heart broke for him.

Silently, she vowed to never let him experience suffering again. If she had to give herself to the KGB to trade his safety and life, she would do so in a heartbeat. Anything to ensure that he would never have a reason to cry again. Anything for his smile; anything for him.

She would heal him, even if it killed her.

* * *

 **A/N:** I have more planned for this story—as I said above, it won't take more than 4-5 chapters at most, but be assured that there _is_ a plot to this! I intend to delve into the origins of Erik and Christine's relationship and marriage, his life working as a spy for the KGB, and especially his experiences in Afghanistan. We'll have a very special guest making an appearance as well. This is just a little teaser to set the mood for the premise.

Apologies in advance, because I will not be able to update anytime soon. I have my A Levels in 8 days, but I couldn't resist writing this. I have the rest of the story planned out; it's all a matter of writing it down now. I hope I will be able to update in a week or two!

Leave a review, let me know what you think!


	2. I Hold

**A/N:** Thank you for the reviews! I've just finished my first two exams today and I was so happy that they went well, so I let myself indulge in writing the second chapter to this story. I'll be honest with you—from the time I posted the first chapter, my fingers have been itching to type out the second. So many ideas were flowing through my head throughout the week about this fic, so have a long chapter to make up for it!

Again, written in the middle of the night and unbeta'd. Sorry for grammar mistakes, etc.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album _Sigh No More_. The song featured in this fic is called  After The Storm—beautiful song. Have a listen.

Enjoy!

* * *

 _And now I cling to what I knew_

 _I saw exactly what was true_

 _But oh no more._

 _That's why I hold,_

 _That's why I hold with all I have._

 _That's why I hold._

* * *

The journey home was silent and harrowing.

Christine stood anxiously beside her husband in the train, holding onto one of the bars. They had spent the better part of an hour in the airport, standing in the middle of the arrival gate and embracing each other tightly. It was only when Erik had ceased his shaking that Christine pulled back and wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Let's go home, Erik," she had murmured, fingers stroking his neck soothingly. She had yearned to place her hands on his cheeks and brush the usual smooth skin of his face, an action that would always calm him before the war. The Erik that stood before her was dejected and broken. She was afraid of hurting him—after all, she didn't know what he had suffered, both physically and emotionally.

She had pushed away the small trickle of fear at what she would find beneath the bandages and taken his hand.

Erik had not spoken a word since they had been reunited; she wondered if he had spoken at all during the flight home—the only reassurance she received was the constant pressure of his hand tightly wrapped around hers, never letting go. It was disconcerting to not hear his velvet tenor smoothening over her, caressing her bones and making her shiver at the mention of her name. He'd sing to her and she would feel his veins intertwining with hers like vines, their souls becoming one as their voices joined in an exotic duet. Erik's voice was intoxicating, exciting and so characteristically _him_ that it would be strange to imagine him without it.

A sudden panic seized her that he may have lost his voice. Turning around quickly, she looked up at him, searching his golden irises. "Erik, you _can_ speak, can't you?" she asked worriedly.

It brought a degree of comfort to see the slight break of tension in his shoulders as his eyebrow raised, disappearing into his mass of bandages. She sighed in relief.

"I needed to know," she said quietly. "You haven't spoken and I—I needed to know."

He didn't answer.

Christine sighed once more, and lifted her gaze to look out the window. Once, he would have looked at her incredulously and dismissed her claims. "Me? Voiceless?" he would question her. " _Me?"_ And he would have scoffed, telling her that she was being absurd, and he would never allow himself to lose his instrument so easily. She would roll his eyes at his pompous pride and turn away, and he would then catch her around the waist and press light kisses to her neck in apology until she giggled her defeat.

They had been happy before he had left. As she gazed out the window, she allowed herself to drift back into fonder memories, remembering the first night they had met...

* * *

 ** _The Bolshoi Theatre, June 1977_**

The curtains closed with a flourish, orchestra drowned out by the deafening applause.

Erik stood in his box, clapping enthusiastically, almost aggressively. He had been to the Bolshoi a few times: sometimes to track down a target, sometimes for leisure. He would always watch the performances held with an appreciative eye, nodding at the orchestrations—which were always seamless—and observing the artistic set designs. The ballet was outstanding, of course, but what infuriated him in these moments were the often _talentless_ leads.

Apart from violence, his life had been filled with music. He had never been blessed with a loving mother, but sometimes he would look back and realise that he _had_ been blessed in some way, for it was her virtuoso voice that inspired him to explore his own talents. Erik remembered creeping into his mother's music room before dawn one night and, warily looking around, sat down by the piano. He remembered the first tentative caress of keys with his fingers, and then the jump of surprise when it was pressed down and a single, clear note ran through the air.

That was all it had taken for him to eagerly learn all he could about the piano. He soon directed his knowledge to other instruments, practicing his violin until his fingers bled and shook when the bow was released. He created and composed. And when he joined the KGB, music was his getaway from all the assassinations—his own secret paradise, untainted by the blood of the Soviet Union's enemies.

The members of the secret police would often invite him along for their escapades, insisting that he make friends and socialise. Erik had never been a _social_ person, and oftentimes he would firmly shake his head and state that he had work to do. Their activities of drinking and gambling held no interest to him, after all. They never made any move to disguise themselves, and Erik refused to associate himself with them—after all, he wore a mask in the job for a _reason_. If he were to be seen with members of the KGB maskless, there was no doubt that someone would make the link between the tall, pale young man and the master assassin. He was not taking any chances.

But it had not taken the officers long to realise that he would not deny himself a trip to the Opera House, no matter who he would have to share company or be seen with. It had amused them to no end that their infamous Phantom was secretly an artistic soul, but Erik didn't care—he lost himself in the music as soon as he sat down, anyway, so it was simple to block their unruly guffaws out.

As he stood there clapping, the curtain lifted once more to reveal the cast, all standing in a line down the stage and smiling beatifically. Rows and rows of ballet dancers, chorus members and supporting characters walked forward with bows, all beaming at the applause they had rightfully deserved. Erik's hands were numb from slapping his palms together, but he couldn't stop. He was waiting for _her_.

At last, the leads walked forwards, receiving a roar of applause. The tenors took their bows, followed by the baritones, and two mezzo-sopranos. Erik pursed his lips impatiently, waiting for the leading lady. The others had been excellent, no doubt, but without her—oh, without her, the performance would have been _nothing_.

And then there she was. She was fair-skinned and blushing pink, and slender from what he could see. A beautiful smile spread across her lips at the thunderous applause, and she took several bows, bringing her hands to cover her heart as she gazed adoringly at the crowd.

Erik was stunned. He could not tear his eyes off her, feeling his lips stretch into the hint of a grin at the sight of her happiness. Never had he been as struck by a woman until now. Of course, with his line of work, there were always possibilities of pleasure through money and darkened bars. But that had only ever disgusted him, so he had accepted the possibility of living without a companion for the rest of his life. He would only put her in danger, he knew. Courtship and love had never appealed to him in any way, in the least—until now.

He stared openly at her, watching as she shook her bright, red mass of hair—a wig, he supposed—away from her face and took another bow. He watched her as she laughed, shed a few tears, and turned to gesture towards the orchestra and company. A few more bows from the rest of the company, and then the curtains closed.

Immediately, Erik turned and started shuffling through the items on his seat, looking for the programme booklet. "Entranced, are we, boy?" one of the men guffawed, but he paid them no heed. He tossed aside his gloves, the tie he had loosened and left carelessly on his seat... there.

Leafing through the booklet with an intensity that took him by surprise, Erik scanned through the list of names in the programme. Finally, he found the one he wanted.

 _Christine Daaé, leading soprano._

There was no picture, so he scanned through her resumé, nodding his approval. She had attended a conservatoire, studied ballet and further classical opera for three years, and performed in various impressive venues and shows. It was no wonder that she had taken the audience by surprise tonight, filling the walls of the theatre with her angelic song, voice smooth and light and unique.

Tucking the programme into his jacket, Erik stood and faced the men. "Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing me to an outstanding performance for once." He nodded once at them, their faces twisting into frowns as they registered what he had just said, and strode out of the box before they could respond, quickly rushing towards the entrance of the theatre.

The main foyer was littered with a huge crowd. It seemed as if thousands of people were standing around the room or draped across the staircase, chattering at a volume that made Erik's ears want to bleed. He heaved a sigh of exasperation. Pushing, he smoothly manoeuvred through the crowd, walking down the grand staircase fluidly and making his way towards the coat room. Once he had retrieved the coat and hastily slipped it on, he rushed out of the theatre and made his way towards the backstage door, finding himself praying—for once—that she would not have left yet.

Not many people were waiting outside the door. It was cold tonight—even for June—and many had decided to go straight home, having enjoyed their night thoroughly. He thought it was a shame; while the Bolshoi hosted mediocre performances, they had never performed to this calibre before. It was unique and unprecedented and a pleasant surprise. These singers had obviously poured a huge amount of effort into this production and needed to be appreciated, not dismissed due to the sheer coldness of the _weather_.

But not everybody was as musically inclined as Erik. What he saw as a masterpiece was dismissed as another entertaining night for them. He couldn't help but feel as if their lives were commonly _dull_ —after all, anyone who didn't appreciate the arts obviously did not hold a valid opinion on anything.

A simple query to one of the emerging cast members told him that she hadn't yet emerged, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. It didn't make sense, when he thought about it. He had nothing to say to her apart from offering his congratulations, but surely she knew how much her crowd adored her from the erupting applause she had received. If one were to look from a logical perspective, he had no reason to be here, huddled in his thick coat and breathing tufts of mist into the air. But the logic that had ruled his mind for so long had disappeared, replaced by the simple need to just _act_ without thinking. All he knew at that moment was that he needed to see her, to _talk_ to her.

He hadn't waited in vain. Soon enough, three laughing girls emerged. Erik recognised them as some of the ballet dancers from the cast. Their faces which had been caked with stage make-up were now freshly washed, light hair free from their wigs and tumbling down their shoulders in loose, natural waves. It seemed as if all the women who performed in theatre kept their hair long from his years of observation.

One of the girls, a blonde, noticed him loitering by the door and flashed a bright smile. "Hello, sir," she greeted, and Erik had to blink from the light her teeth seemed to emit. "Are you not heading home?"

"Not after offering my heartiest congratulations on such a successful opening night," he answered smoothly, holding out a diplomatic hand. The other girls immediately stopped chattering once they heard him speak, and were watching the exchange with wide eyes. Once she held out her hand, he shook it once before letting go. "It really was a marvellous production. Fantastic job," he added to the other girls, who were smiling widely.

The girl flushed red and nodded appreciatively. "Thank you so much, sir. It was a pleasure to be a part of," she replied. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"Immensely." Erik was fidgeting slightly in annoyance. Small talk was never his forte, and he was eager to meet the lovely Christine Daaé. "Do you think your diva will emerge from her kingdom anytime soon?" he asked, adding a wry tint to his voice and making the girls laugh. He had long since mastered the art of making people laugh at seemingly nothing at all, though the methods in which this was achieved confused him to no end. Why did people choose to find something so completely drone amusing? It was pointless and a waste of their breaths, in his opinion.

"'Diva'," the blonde laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, Christine will love that. Yes, she's coming—I'll get her for you." She strode up to the door purposefully and stuck her head in, calling, "Christine, hurry up! You've got yourself an admirer!"

Erik pursed his lips at being called 'admirer' and opened his mouth to protest, before remembering that his initial reason for waiting on her _was_ to show his admiration. So, pushing apart his pride, he grudgingly closed his mouth and waited.

A light laugh sounded from the door, and Erik's eyes immediately darted towards the source of the sound. He couldn't see much behind the door, and refrained himself from the intense urge to push his way to that voice. And _oh_ , that voice. It was soft and lilting, reminding him of a garden in spring, bathed in its warm glow. He could listen to that voice forever and still be as entranced as he was at that moment.

The voice in question was speaking, and he shook himself out of his thoughts to listen. "Well, tell them that I will be there in two minutes, I promise!" she called out.

The blonde turned back towards him, smiling once more as the door closed behind her. He followed the disappearing light from backstage with his eyes until the door completely shut, before turning his attention back to the girl. She was apparently saying something to him, and he strained to listen.

"...sorry about that, Christine's always late," she was saying apologetically, smiling sheepishly. "We," a gesture towards the two girls standing by her, "always have to wait up for her after rehearsals. She's always leaving stuff behind and all that. Gosh, and it's really cold too—you must be freezing! She'll be here soon, sir, don't worry."

He shook his head dismissively. "The weather is not a problem, Miss...?"

"Giry," she supplied helpfully, "Meg Giry. I'm in the ballet."

"Yes," he nodded, "I noticed. Once again, fantastic job—but then again, the Bolshoi ballet is always excellent."

This prompted her to flush a brilliant shade of red once more, but before she could reply, the object of his attentions stepped out of the door.

Her hair, like the others, was long and tumbled down her shoulders. But while theirs were lightly coloured with loose waves, hers was a wild, almost messy tangle of dark curls. She was dressed in a simple blue coat, pulled tightly over her body as she shivered from the chill. Her lips and cheeks were pink, flushed from the cold and thrill of a successful debut, and her brilliant blue eyes darted up to meet his. His breath caught at the warm smile she sent his way.

"I'm sorry about that, sir," she shrugged sheepishly. Her voice was much softer when she was speaking directly to him, unlike the raspy quality of Meg Giry's voice. At that moment, the giggling girls and Meg Giry disappeared from his mind. There was only Christine Daaé, then—and little did he know that for the next three years, there would only ever be Christine Daaé.

"It's always a chaotic process after the show," she was saying apologetically. "Things don't run as smoothly backstage." Offering another smile, she held out a hand. "Thank you for waiting, though."

"No apologies needed, Miss Daaé," Erik dismissed. Her eyes met his once more once he spoke, boring into his with an intensity that shook him to his core. Composing himself, he gently took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips, never once leaving her gaze. "Congratulations on your debut. You were magnificent."

Her eyes were shining with unconcealed elation. She was more beautiful up close than she had been on stage, he noticed, letting his gaze drift over her apple cheeks flushed from the weather, almond-shaped eyes creasing slightly at the ends. "Thank you, mister...?"

"Destler," he supplied smoothly. He rose to his full height once more, brushing a thumb over her hand before releasing it. With a thrill, he watched her unconsciously lift it up to her face, brushing fingers against her cheek self-consciously. He surprised himself with the sudden urge to want to reach out and touch her skin for himself.

"You don't sound native," she observed, tilting her head slightly. Her curls tumbled down a shoulder, twisting delicately and blending into her dark her coat.

"Neither do you," he pointed out, dodging the question.

She hummed in admittance. "Very observant of you, Mister Destler," she said wryly, and Erik didn't fail to notice that she had not elaborated either.

His lips curled slightly. "I notice many things. Like your angelic voice, to name a few."

"Oh," she flushed, trying to hide her secretly pleased smile. It was adorable. "Thank you very much, sir."

"Erik." The name had tumbled from his lips before he could stop himself. It was stupid, he knew, to disclose his name so recklessly, but for once he found that he didn't care. "My name is Erik."

She merely smiled. "Hello, Erik. My name is Christine."

* * *

He had met her outside her stage door for the entire following week after that. Christine fondly remembered receiving a single rose from him every night, usually delivered at the door along with a waiting Erik. She would often look forward to concluding her performances so that she could meet with him sooner. After the first week, she had agreed on his proposal to walk her home so that Meg would not have to wait for them at the sidelines, since she had shared a room with her blonde friend at the time. She had been completely enamoured by him—and as Erik had told her later, he had been just as entranced. By the third week, he was asking to meet her for lunches and dinners and then, they were meeting frequently outside of the theatre. And as soon as she knew it, he was kissing her on her doorstep and she had been the happiest woman alive.

It was as if their love had been conceived out of a distant fairytale, something too good to be able to last forever.

Christine shook herself out of her thoughts as they finally reached the station closest to the Bolshoi Theatre. She glanced at her husband, noting his silent, forlorn expression, and cursed the letter that sent him to service. The letter that had taken him away from her and turned him into _this_ —this scarred, distant version of her husband who refused to look her in the eye for more than a second.

She silently led him out of the train, leading him to the bus stop. When they had first started seeing each other, Erik had always insisted on hailing a _marshrutka_ for them—a state-owned taxi. It had not been difficult, considering his wealthier state as a valuable asset to the government. While the Soviets called themselves 'communist', the officials were _always_ in a better position than their citizens, a far cry from the equality promised in socialism. Erik himself had despised the corrupt system, but had grudgingly upheld the habits practiced by the 'upper classes'. The government's kind offer of certain benefits should not be refused, after all.

However he had not lifted a finger in protest as she pulled him onto the bus, following obediently as she led him to a seat. She perched by the window while he sat by the aisle. He refused to meet her eye, staring emptily at the seat in front of him.

Christine wasn't sure what to say to him. She wished to fill the silence, to tell him that he could confide his experiences with her, no matter what horrors he had to face. She wanted to take his face in her hands and demand to see his injuries. She wanted to unwrap his bandages and cover each strip of uncovered skin with kisses, to promise that she would heal him with her words and touch. Their reunion was supposed to be passionate and encompassing, marked with frantic kisses and declarations of love—as their relationship had always been. She had been so desperate to feel him beside her once more, to blush at his compliments, to sing with him once more.

But she knew she needed to tread delicately with him. There was no doubt that Erik had suffered—he had never returned from a mission with this hollowness in his bones, almost looking unwilling to live. The Erik that sat before her looked like he was stripped of cause and pride, an empty shell of the passionate man she had known. He stared without seeing the seat in front of him, and she knew that he must be reliving his time in Afghanistan.

Again, she found herself wondering what had happened in Afghanistan, and again, she ashamedly didn't want to know.

The bus arrived at the theatre soon after and he rose from his seat, graceful even after the atrocities he'd suffered. She stood with him—he had not released her hand, nor had she wanted him to—and together they silently made their way down the steps and onto the street, walking as one in the direction of their home. The theatre was expecting her, she knew, but Christine was _not_ about to return when she had just gotten her husband back. They would have to do without their leading soprano for a day.

They finally reached their home: a modest flat obtained through Erik's connections, far better than the communal apartment she had previously lived in. The coat of white paint over the building building had faded into a dull grey, and Christine pushed the door open, pulling Erik along as they began to climb the steps to their flat on the third floor. There was no sound apart from the slap of shoes against the echoing floor of the stairs.

Christine fished her pockets for the keys as they approached their door, needing to release Erik's hand for a moment. He was silent behind her while she opened the door, as she had grown to expect even after their short time being together once more.

The flat was larger than usual, yet still small. Christine stepped into their little living room, composed of a sofa, an armchair and a single coffee table. A tall bookshelf stood in the corner, littered with mountains of unaligned books, hastily put away. They owned a small kitchen, equipped with a stove and long counter. There were two rooms—one bedroom shared by Erik and Christine, and the other being Erik's prized music room.

She winced at the state of the flat. Erik had always been a meticulously tidy person, refusing to leave things out of order, but in his absence Christine had readopted her former habits of messiness. Her soft blue quilt was draped over the sofa along with one of her sweaters, unfolded and wrinkled. The coffee table had mug stains on it, and the sink had a few unwashed dishes in it. She knew that their bed was unmade from this morning, and her laundry was lying in a pile on their bathroom floor.

His music room, though, remained untouched. She could not bear to soil his piano or violin, and always made it a point to carefully wipe clean the dust that would gather from their disuse.

Shrugging off her coat and laying her bag on the kitchen counter, she chattered to fill the silence. "Come, you must be starving. I'll make you something to eat. What do you want? I'm sorry; I can't make you any borscht—I know you like those, but I haven't stocked up on any ingredients. But I have some leftover cutlets, and I think I bought some kvass yesterday—Erik?"

He was still standing by the door, outside the threshold. One look at his face showed his eyes carefully looking around the flat, scanning the living room with observant eyes. Christine flushed.

"Yes, I know, it's messy," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry, I know how much you liked it clean, but you weren't here to—well. I promise I'll tidy everything up later—"

"Christine."

She immediately broke off, looking at him with wide eyes at the sound of his voice. It still held the same melodious tone to it, but instead of smoothness she heard raspiness and disuse. In a way she was almost expectant for him to speak, holding her breath for him to say more, but he merely looked at her. His expression was not instantly readable due to the bandages covering his face, but Christine could easily recognise the softening of his gaze as he looked at her—so familiar, so tender.

She knew it would not be easy to get him to confide in her. His horrors would not leave so easily, and she would be naive to believe that he could forget so easily. Perhaps he would not be the same Erik she had fallen in love with, but Christine didn't care. Whatever he had experienced and no matter who he would become, she loved him, and nothing would change that. She would always, _always_ stay by his side.

With that thought in mind, she returned his gaze, letting a small, tentative smile graze her lips. It was a small gesture, but she hoped that her eyes conveyed the deep love she had for him, never diminishing once in his months away. Softly, she said, "Welcome home, Erik."

He stepped through the door and shut it behind him.

* * *

Erik felt like a stranger to his own home.

It was just as he remembered it: living room in shambles, dishes cluttering the sink, a coat fallen from the hook by the door. It was comforting, in a way, to see that Christine had not lost her habit of messiness while he had been gone. He had garnered hope for a moment at the brief yet intimate exchange he had with her only moments before—hope for the chance to heal, for things to go back to the way it was.

But then she had gone and _apologised_ for it, and he felt the hope and familiar warmth of their home dissipate into thin air.

In all their years together, she had never once apologised for the state of her bedroom or closet. Everything was always in a mess, and while Erik would sigh exasperatedly and pick up after, she had always shrugged when he reprimanded her and planted a kiss onto his cheek, dismissing him with a shrug. He would grudgingly grumble his defeat, and she would smile beatifically up at him with a triumphant, "I love you."

Hearing her apology was a stab to his withering heart. It meant that she felt unfamiliar with him, that she was uncomfortable around him. He hadn't _asked_ to leave—she must know that. But he dared not speak for the fear that she would start questioning him about Afghanistan. His wounds were still fresh and raw, and while he could never forget the savagery of war, he could damn well try to repress his memories the best he could.

It would be too painful to live otherwise.

So he walked into his home silently, looking around. This was hardly messy, he thought. While he had been particularly tidy before, he was all too familiar with the bunkers and hammocks the men were confined to in their hidden camps concealed by Afghan forests. Instead of this cozy home, he had lived in confining quarters shared with dozens of snoring men, all stinking of sweat and grime and gore. There was hardly a night when nobody was bleeding in some way—and if there was, the others would toss around in their meagre hammock-beds, unused to the absent smell of blood. Shirts and undershirts would be tossed carelessly on the floor, muddy tracks making it impossible to find a clean surface to walk on. Oftentimes Erik would have been woken by yelling; either from another soldier's nightmare, or worse—signifying the threat of the enemy.

And then after that, he did not even have a shelter to sleep in. He found sleep by leaning tiredly against the tree he was bound to, or on the muddy ground while men guffawed and spoke their strange, harsh language. He had been trained in their language and recognised the words easily, but it didn't shake off the uneasiness he felt at hearing them speak—almost spit—their words. There would be nights where rain would soak his skin and leave him shivering to the bone, and nights when he would be sweating from the heat, the cloth hanging on his shoulders a burden to his skin.

This small mess was nothing compared to what he had lived in for the past ten months, and Erik was grateful. But Christine—she didn't understand.

And in a way, he didn't _want_ her to understand.

Because once she did, she would be tainted with the horrors he had faced. He would lay his burden on her shoulders and take away her innocent outlook on life. Even after discovering that the man she loved was working with the KGB, Christine had still shown a bright, optimistic outlook towards the world. It had amused and amazed him both, and he could not bear the thought of taking that away from her.

Providing that she should still choose to live with and love him, that was.

So Erik let her fuss over the dishes and coffee table, taking slow steps as he familiarised himself with his home once more. The bookshelf was definitely more well-stocked with Christine's new novels, and a glance at the sofa showed a new sweater draped over the arm, something he had never seen his wife wear before. He ran his hand over the woollen material softly, caressing the warmth of the sweater, still infused with her scent.

"Erik?"

He turned to find Christine watching him, smiling tentatively—almost uncertainly. He hated how forced she seemed to be around him.

She held a hand out. "You're still wearing your coat. Don't you want to take it off?"

Blinking once, he looked down at his form to realise that she was right. He was wearing a simple black coat endorsed by the army, standardised for every man of the Red Army. It branded him as one of _them_ —soulless, a pitiful, wounded soldier; still living, but hollow inside.

He despised it. As quickly as he could without tearing the stitches on his torso, Erik shed the cloak. His scars were painful but he never even winced; he had grown numb to the pain by now.

 _They_ had made sure of it.

He blinked once more to realise that Christine had moved to stand directly in front of him, gently taking the coat from his hands. "I'm sure you'll want to take a shower," she said softly. He flinched as her pale, soft hand rose as if to cup his cheek, reminded of when other hands had been raised towards him none too gently. She hesitated with a pained in front of his eyes, then eventually lowered it to rest on his thin, bony collarbone.

He knew that she did not wish to disturb his bandages, but felt a dull ache in his chest all the same. Her hands would always familiarly—almost carelessly—caress his cheek, lips pressing to his without a thought. He wished he had cherished her touches more, drawn out their kisses longer. There would never be a time where he could feel her hand on his skin again. She would be disgusted by him now—her disfigured, ghastly, distorted husband who refused to speak or even _look_ at her.

Again, he wondered when it would be that she would finally decide to leave him.

"Go and change," Christine said quietly, thumb softly stroking the skin on his neck. "Your clothes are still in the dresser where it's always been. I'll heat us up some leftovers for dinner. Honestly, Erik, I didn't think it was possible for you to become any thinner."

Her feeble attempt at a joke would have brought a curve to his lips if he hadn't possessed any memories of _how_ he had lost that weight. There had been countless nights without food in his belly, and while Erik had never been one with much of an appetite, he had been just as weak as everyone else, starving like any other man.

Refusing to look at her, he nodded. He heard her let out a small sigh before she released him, heading towards the kitchen where she would be preparing their meal. Without another word he walked in the direction of their bedroom, but stopped at the sight of another door at the end of the hall.

It was closed, as he had always insisted it be. Halting in his step, Erik gazed longingly at the door and what he knew was hidden behind it: his prized instruments, manuscripts of compositions, his world of orchestrations...

Before he knew it he was in front of the door, reaching out to grasp the handle of the door. His fingers lingered upon the cool metal for a moment, before a sharp twist clicked the lock and creaked open slightly.

Perhaps he had imagined to regain his soul at the sight of Christine, and when that had not worked, at the sight of his instruments. Music had never failed to draw him out of his depression should he fall into it, but perhaps it was wishful thinking that it would work now.

The room was pristine and spotless. His grand piano stood in the middle of the room proudly, polished black wood shining in the glow of evening light. Stacked neatly by the wall were his violin and cello, and his oboe was sitting in its case on the table where his manuscripts were tidily arranged. A pen and paper lay in the middle of the desk, waiting for him to pick it up and start crossing out notes.

It was just as he had left it—Christine had not touched a single instrument. It was obvious that she had been into the room to polish the otherwise dusty piano and instruments, but other than that, it was as if he was still living in his neat world of coming home to a beaming wife and waiting compositions.

And it was the opposite of everything he had faced in Afghanistan. The sight of his instruments, instead of bringing him peace as he would have hoped, only earned a wave of nausea to overcome him. It reminded him of the conditions he and every other soldier had to face, of the little huts in the villages, of the privileged life he had once led without a care to every other who had lived without art.

He pulled the door shut behind him and without another glance, strode to their bedroom.

* * *

 **A/N:** The beginning of Erik's long journey towards healing. While I had initially planned for this to be a short fic, I might make it slightly longer. His healing process, after all, will not be easy _or_ quick.

So: a little insight into Erik and Christine's life pre-war, hints of what happened in Afghanistan and lots of unspoken words between our favourite couple. What do you think so far? Let me know your thoughts!

Review and I'll try to get in another chapter by this weekend!


	3. Not This Mind, Not This Heart

**A/N:** Thank you for all the follows, favourites and reviews! I'm glad to see this story well received.

 **IMPORTANT: ** Since this story will be delving into mature themes, I have decided to up the rating to **M.** This will include violence as well as smut, since I think they're both necessary to tell this story the way I want to. I'll be sure to put a warning if a chapter contains smut or violence, so feel free to skip those parts if you want to. This chapter contains some mentions of blood.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album _Sigh No More_. The song featured in this fic is called  After The Storm—beautiful song. Have a listen.

Enjoy!

* * *

 _Night has always pushed up day._

 _You must know life to see decay_

 _But I won't rot, I won't rot_

 _Not this mind and not this heart,_

 _I won't rot._

* * *

 ** _February 1980_**

The aircraft hummed quietly, soldiers shifting around in their seats. Some were eager, determined to fight for their country and defeat their enemy. Others were silent and forlorn, staring hopelessly ahead, never having imagined themselves in this situation. And there were some who were only boys, frightened at their prospects, unwilling to kill or be killed.

There were no windows, nothing to signify their arrival apart from the engine whirring. Most were talking amongst themselves, discussing strategies or listening intently to the experienced ones.

Now, it was all about survival.

Erik sat to the side by himself, wearing the standard faded, army green uniform. There were various weapons attached to his person: a pistol by his hip, two daggers by each ankle and one strapped to his shoulder, a single bracelet around his wrist hiding a grappling hook. Small explosives hid in his form, ready to be triggered at the slightest warning. The others didn't possess his weapons; he was an assassin after all, and had collected knife and gun carefully throughout years of spy work.

Not a soldier, yet disguised as one.

But the weapons or how he would use them was the last thing on his mind. Instead he stared down at the hand on his lap, where a simple, faded pocket watch rested on his palm. When flipped open it did not reveal the face of a watch, however—it showed him the woman he yearned for the most.

His Christine.

There was a picture on each side: one of Christine, the other of them together. Her portrait, though small, was beautiful as always. He had managed to snag a few objects here and there from the enemies he was told to kill; a bottle opener, a beautiful tie, a cufflink. He had been lucky enough to swipe a camera from one of his elite targets, and remembered musing to himself as he made his swift escape that he would be able to capture some lovely photographs of his lovelier woman.

The image captured her in the midst of a laugh. Erik hadn't been assigned a job for months, so had indulged them in a trip to Greece for a week. They had prepared to pack and return at any given moment should his current employment status be compromised, but had enjoyed themselves nonetheless. He remembered how they had ventured out for a simple moonlit dinner one night, satisfying themselves with delicious Greek cuisine. After that, they took a walk along the coast, stopping for a moment to admire the sea. She had worn a simple white dress he had recently purchased for her—a dress he claimed made her as radiant as Athena, the goddess of wisdom and strength.

"She was the goddess of the arts too, so I think it's only fitting," he had pointed out. Her dress and hair were both blown by the wind, lending her a graceful, divine look.

Christine had turned to face him, amused. Her dark hair tangled from the wind, sweeping over one shoulder carelessly. "And what are you?" she had questioned, raising an eyebrow. "Ares, god of war, or Apollo, god of music?"

"Neither. I am no god."

"Liar. Plus, what if Athena had been with any one of those gods? You'd be missing out."

Erik had snorted. "Athena was a virgin goddess." And then, "Actually, on second thought, maybe not Athena. God knows she'd be offended since you, my dear, are no _virgin_."

She stifled a laugh. "And you made sure of that, didn't you?"

"Oh, _definitely_."

His blunt, arrogant answer had derived an incredulous look from her. And then, she had tossed her head back and emitted peals of laughter. There was no other way to describe her other than _glowing_ at that moment. Cheeks flushed, hair tousled, white goddess dress gently blowing by her ankles, revealing a single gold anklet. She looked radiant; she looked _loved_.

He hadn't hesitated to raise the camera and snap the picture.

The memory brought a faint, fond smile to his lips. It brought a fierce wave of longing in his chest to think about being apart from his angel. His service in Afghanistan would be different from his other shorter assignments; it could last for months, years even.

Brushing a thumb over her photograph, his gaze directed to the other frozen image Meg had taken of them. His hands wrapped around her waist from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. They were both smiling at the camera, radiating their obvious love for one another.

His happy face stared back up at him. He had never considered himself handsome, even if Christine shamelessly doted and fawned over him in insistence. Thin lips stretched widely, sharp cheekbones seemingly jutting out from a fierce grin. Two deep-set eyes bored into their mirror image, golden irises striking even from the faded quality.

Christine once told him that she loved his eyes. They held a unique colour, she had said, so beautiful and distinct. He had rolled them to hide his surprised pleasure.

He hated taking his own photograph, but couldn't help loving the perfect image he looked at now. It spoke of their love and affection, their fierce devotion towards one another. Her arms possessively wrapped around his, his just as possessively snaked around her waist.

It was clear that they belonged, were _made_ for each other.

Erik traced her smile with his thumb, sighing. The last few weeks of her were not of their usual, simple happiness. Once the letter ordering his involvement in the war had arrived in their mailbox, there had only been frantic kisses and hours spent making love in their bed, bodies yearning and taking, desperate to learn and relearn until there was no inch of skin left that would not be branded by a thrumming touch.

Christine had yelled at him for not confiding in her at first. He had hidden the letter, refusing to believe it. He was an _assassin;_ a _spy_! It was completely ridiculous and uncalled for to send him into a war. But the letter clearly stated his skills were needed; the Afghans were skilled in guerrilla warfare, and often took the Soviets by surprise by raiding their camps, striking before slinking back into the shadows. They were ghosts amongst the battlefield— _Dukhi_ , as one of the soldiers had said previously.

And they needed the Phantom to hunt these ghosts down. How poetic.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by a voice sounding from the speaker. "Landing in ten minutes. Get your gear ready," were the only words said. It was clipped, professional—detached.

The men around him hastily got off their seats, standing to check weapons and holsters, slinging rifles around their shoulders, securing them with straps. Erik stood and snapped the pocket watch shut, hanging it around his neck and tucking it under his uniform. He felt safe with Christine resting against his thudding heart, wild from adrenaline and anticipation and a little fear.

He slipped an AK-47 and a shotgun around his shoulders, straps crossing his chest. A military knapsack securely attached to his form, light enough to ensure his movements wouldn't be hindered.

The plane was landing, engines whirring louder from their descent. Some soldiers were frantic now, hastily arranging weapons in a way that would not inconvenience them. Once they stepped out of the plane, Erik knew that there was no looking back. There was no room for lagging behind or hope for a safe area until they reached camp, so it was critical for the soldiers to be able to move quickly and easily. A man lagged behind was left behind. They were all fighting for their survival, here.

The image of his last moment with Christine suddenly filled his mind.

"Promise me," she had insisted between kisses, body tightly pressed against his own. They had fiercely clung onto each other in front of the airport gate where he was due to leave in a matter of minutes, locked in a bruising kiss. "Promise me that you'll come back to me as soon as you can," she begged. He felt the wetness on her cheeks on his. "Promise that you'll be safe, and whole, and _never_ leave me again."

He had closed his eyes, leaning their foreheads together. He knew that he couldn't swear the impossible, but she was crying and clinging onto him and his heart clenched painfully at the mere _idea_ of being apart from his angel that he fiercely nodded.

"Of course," he vowed, cupping her face in his hands and looking deep into her eyes. "I swear it, Christine. Never again," he pledged, and she had let out a sob before tightly winding her arms around his shoulders in a grasping hug.

As the plane finally landed, Erik took a deep breath. The cargo doors started to open, revealing a wide, sandy rainforest.

This was it. The moment he stepped out of the plane, he was a soldier-spy officially representing the Soviet Union. Not by choice, but by necessity to serve his country, to ensure his people's protection.

To ensure _Christine's_ protection.

"Alright, boys, get a move on!" the frontman roared over the engine, and one by one, the Red Army filed out of the cargo, guns clutched tightly in hand.

And as Erik strode out of the plane, he breathed out the promise he had made to his wife. His last thought was of Christine's smile before he ventured out to his fate.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

It was dawn. Christine only knew from the familiar rise of the mattress behind her, signifying that Erik had woken and was going to leave the room. She assumed that his body clock had become used to functioning on a few hours of sleep.

The first time, she had sat up in bed with a sleepy frown, asking him where he was going.

"Go to sleep, Christine," he had murmured, and slipped out of the room quietly.

It had been two weeks since the time she followed him and tried to offer the comfort he refused to take. As a result she had yawned her way through rehearsals, a completely useless diva who blinked sleepily at changes to the script. Anton, the director, had exasperatedly told her to go home after a wasted day.

So she simply rolled over to his side of the bed, breathing in his scent and lulling herself back to sleep.

She woke at eight, fresh and rejuvenated. Blinking sleep away, Christine tossed aside the blankets and attempted to arrange them before finally giving up, as she always did. It was useless, anyway: no matter how delicately she would make their bed, she would always come home at the end of the day to find it neatly arranged by Erik.

Not bothering to don a shift, she padded out of the room clothed in one of Erik's old shirts that hung slightly above her knees. Ever since he had left her, she had taken to wearing his clothes to sleep—her nightgowns had tears in them, after all. She had felt closer to him this way—surrounded by his scent, his shirt covering her body protectively. If she tried hard enough, she could imagine his arms wrapped around her, his lips pressed to her neck as they both slept comfortably in each other's embrace.

It had been pointless to start wearing her old nightgowns once he returned, so she stuck to her usual habit of clothing herself in his shirts before bed. Erik hadn't said anything about it—in fact, he hadn't spoken at all apart from the occasional, "Good morning," or, "Goodnight."

The smell of freshly toasted bread and eggs wafted the air and she breathed in deeply, sighing contentedly. Erik had taken to preparing her breakfasts and dinners since he was no longer employed under the KGB and while she longed to keep him company all day, she could not simply stop working at the theatre. Erik would probably snap out of his spell and throw a fit if she mentioned it. Plus, finance was not an issue: the pension he received along with her income was more than enough to support them both.

His unemployment, however, left him a sinful amount of time of doing absolutely nothing. Which in turn prompted him to make her meals, clean up after them, and stoke the fire when it got cold. She never caught sight of any sign of books he had read, or used manuscripts written on. Before, he would usually spend his leisure times visiting her during rehearsals and staying behind to watch. His artistic eye had caught Anton's interest and Erik would often have to stay late into the day at his insistence of discussing the production.

Christine had teased that Anton worshipped him. He had scoffed and claimed that he didn't desire anyone's worship unless it was hers.

Now... he did absolutely nothing. But Christine refused to grow depressed due to his state—she faced each new day with hope that he would open up a little so she could help him grow back into his life once more.

She caught sight of Erik standing by the stove, back to her as he stirred the contents of a pan. The bandages were firmly in place around his face, tied tightly in knots as usual. She had never seen him without it, but didn't want to push. He would show her when he was ready.

So she darted into the kitchen and hopped onto the counter, peering into the pan. "Mm, that smells delicious, Erik."

He didn't say anything, but there was a tiny quirk of his lips. It was more than she got yesterday, so she relished in it.

"Thank you, love. I don't think I've had a proper breakfast in a long time. You know me, always rushing to get ready and all."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

She chattered on. "Thank god we live closer to the theatre now. Meg used to complain about how I always made us late, but it wasn't _all_ me. She can't tie her shoelaces under pressure _at all,_ so whenever we're rushing we always need to calm down enough for her to bend down and tie her shoes. It's ridiculous, really. She's doing really well, by the way—Meg, I mean. She's prima ballerina now. I couldn't be happier for her, but she's _so_ full of herself. Did I tell you about that one time she paraded us around the stage, telling everyone to 'Get out of the way, the queens are passing!'?"

He silently shook his head, focused on scraping the eggs off the pan and pouring it onto a plate. Setting the sizzling pan in the sink, he crossed to the opposite counter to retrieve her toasted bread.

"Well, the managers had just walked in and promoted her on the spot," she went on, watching him work. "It was so _dramatic_ , Erik—they asked us to hush and everything before announcing that Meg was to be the prima ballerina! I think Sorelli threw a fit. Meg literally _twirled_ , grabbed my arm and told everyone to move to let us pass. They parted like the sea, Erik, it was _hilarious_."

The toast had been placed on the plate by now, and Christine hummed her approval. "Oh, that looks just as good as it smells." She clasped her hands together before hopping down from the counter, quickly catching his hand in hers and giving a small squeeze before he could pull back. She released him just as quickly, turning back towards the counter swiftly to hide the familiar pang of hurt she'd feel every time he flinched away from her.

 _He doesn't mean it_ , she told herself firmly. _He's been hurt, and badly. Don't be naive enough to think that everything would go back to normal again._

"Thanks, Erik," she said once more, turning around with a smile. "I appreciate it, really."

He nodded in acknowledgement and picked up her plate, gesturing for her to sit by the stool as he arranged her meal upon the island counter. He laid down a glass of water by the side of the plate.

Christine pulled a face. "Can't I have juice?" she asked, pouting.

Erik's stony demeanour broke slightly as he rolled his eyes. She bit her cheek to keep from smiling.

"Okay, I know, it's bad for my voice," she grumbled, but the curve of her lips betrayed her amusement. He seemed to share in the humour too from the way he seemed to exasperatedly—yet fondly—shake his head. Quietly, she ate her meal, offering some to Erik who refused, as usual.

"Mm, that was delicious," she complimented once she finished, looking up to smile at him.

Erik had simply leaned against the counter the entire time, watching her eat. He inclined his head, then raised an eyebrow before glancing at the clock that hung on the wall.

Cursing, she rose quickly from the seat. She grabbed the plate and glass to wash but Erik stopped her, easily taking the dirty plate and glass from her hands and walking towards the sink without another word. She would have protested if not for the time, so she hastily thanked him and rushed towards their open bedroom door.

Once she had cleaned her teeth and thrown on her clothes, Christine emerged from the bedroom with gloves clenched between teeth and hands working to wrap a red scarf around her neck. It had been a gift from her father, back when he was still alive and thriving, and had lasted her twenty years now.

"Why don't you head outside today?" she asked conversationally as she strode towards the door. Lifting her cloak off a hook, she slipped it on and buttoned up. "The weather's nice, so that stall with the _shashlik_ you love so much will be around," she continued, knowing that he was hovering silently behind her. "You could even drop by the theatre—I'm sure Anton would love to see you."

She knew she had asked in vain, and her thoughts were confirmed when he crossed his arms and leaned against the door, watching her bend to slip on shoes.

Sighing her defeat, she straightened up and nodded. "Okay. Don't get too bored. I'll try to come home as early as I can."

He simply opened the door and stepped aside for her to walk through. She caught his hand in hers once more; he didn't flinch. She victoriously counted it as progress.

Smiling softly, Christine lifted his rough, calloused hand to her face as he had done so many times before. His beautiful golden eyes burned into hers as her smooth lips pressed to the hardened skin of his palm.

"I love you," she told him, caressing his hand in hers. He stood deathly still, back straight and tall, eyes trained on her. Gently releasing him, Christine shot him one last smile before turning to leave for the theatre.

She didn't catch him staring after her, the small, amused smile he had worn the entire morning immediately dropping.

* * *

Erik spent the rest of the day as he always did: doing everything possible to distract himself from changing his bandages.

He knew that Christine meant well, that she was trying for _his_ sake, but putting on an act of their usual teasing and hinting smiles had been painful and exhausting. He didn't want to pretend with her, but knew that if he accepted her comfort she would urge him to tell her what had happened.

He knew his Christine too well to identify when she was trying to heal him.

Erik walked towards the kitchen sink, routinely washing the dishes. One of the mugs had Christine's lipstick stain on the rim, and he carefully wiped it off, meticulously washing it. The flat was completely silent apart from the sound of water running.

Before, she never wanted to know about his experiences. She clearly disapproved of his line of work, but there had been no way of detaching himself from the KGB without severe consequences. His darling angel said it didn't matter, but he knew there must have been some part of her that was disgusted. Sometimes he would come home with a forlorn look from a wayward kill, and all it would take was her arms around him for him to calm down once more. She would ask him about it and he would tell her the same thing every time.

"I killed him, Christine," he would whisper into her neck, burying his face into her curls. "I'm sorry, I killed him. I'm sorry."

She would hush him by pressing her lips to his, letting him lose himself in her and _forget_.

It was during these times that Erik would thank every god that existed, real or no, for allowing him her love. His life had been pointless before she entered it; he had been a spy because he was skilled, not for any personal motive. His kills were clean and often delivered with a sardonic, "The KGB sends their regards." He was cool, detached, uncaring.

There was no purpose, no direction before her.

Once he was done with the dishes, he moved towards their bedroom. Christine had taken to depositing her clothes in the laundry basket instead of the floor since he returned, unintentionally causing his dismay. He only wanted things to go back to the way they were, but her little actions made it seem impossible.

He moved around the room automatically, picking up pillows on the floor and placing them onto the bed before making it neatly. With a quick flick of the coverlet the bed was tidy, yet not pristine. The blankets were slightly mussed on purpose, the corners of the pillows creased. The bed looked neat, but lived in. It looked like it belonged to two people who slept in it often, who shared kisses and made love in it.

Nodding once, he walked out of the bedroom and into their shared bathroom. Routinely, he picked up after her: the toothpaste that smudged the side of the sink, the towel tossed onto the toilet seat in her haste to get ready. The sight of Christine rushing around to dress had never failed to bring a smile to his lips during his time in Afghanistan, however faint. It was comforting to know that she had not rid herself of the loveable trait.

Soon enough, the entire flat was clean but not immaculate. Her books still sat unaligned on the bookshelf, the pillows on the sofa limp and messy. He liked it this way: it was as if she was still here, even if she was only ten minutes away.

He tried to find more to do, but soon accepted that there was nothing more he could do without the flat turning into an IKEA showroom. The afternoon passed with Erik wandering aimlessly around, carefully avoiding his music room—it still brought a degree of uncomfortableness. He needed to change his bandages, he knew, but would delay that task for as long as he could.

But there was only so much wandering to do before Erik found himself truly, sublimely bored. He didn't wish to read—stories held no appeal to him—and they had no television since neither he nor Christine used it. Finally with a defeated sigh, he walked to the bathroom to perform the most trying task of his day.

He had long since mastered the art of dressing his wounds without the aid of a mirror and quietly retrieved fresh bandages and gauze from the bathroom shelf. Laying antiseptic, gauze and bandages by the counter, he slid down the bathroom floor to avoid his reflection before reaching up and unwrapping his bandages.

It felt unholy to unwrap the material that exposed his hideous face to the world. He grimaced, discomforted as the bandages pressed against torn skin, but had long grown accustomed to the pain. Once the bandages were removed, he doused clean cotton swabs with water, never once looking up from sink to mirror. He dabbed the wet cotton onto his face, cleaning it as well as he could without looking at his wounds, then towelled his features dry. Rough material caught onto skin, and where once he would wince at the throbbing pain, he now huffed in annoyance and moved to tug it free, sighing exasperatedly at the sight of blood on the towel as he pulled it away.

He took care of the cut with a few dabs of tissue and antiseptic cream before navigating the rest of the bumps on the right side of his face, dabbing each wound with cream. He traced scars he knew to be disgusting from what he had seen before. It was a process he despised, yet he couldn't bear to ask Christine to do it instead, having been especially careful never to allow her a glimpse. If _he_ felt nauseated at the feel of his own skin, how would _she_ react?

He ran a finger across a hollow patch of skin when a fierce, vivid memory shot through his mind.

 _"Hah! Look at yourself, Phantom—look at you! Hideous, deformed, disgusting."_

 _"But sir, the left side of his face_ — _it's_ —"

 _"Completely normal! Exactly the way I want it. Did you hear that, Phantom? I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and see what you used to have. And then when you turn your head and see, you'll remember what we did to you. You'll remember that the_ Dukhi _have left their mark on you_ — _forever!"_

 _No._ Erik shook his head to clear his thoughts, breathing heavily at the sound of the spitting voice in his head. _No_ —he thought it was over—he thought they would be gone! He dabbed the last of the cream hurriedly—almost desperately—onto his face. With shaking hands he applied gauze and bandages, covering his face from sight once more. Once the bandages were firmly tied around his head, shielding his face from view, he breathed a long sigh of relief.

The bathroom was silent apart from his heavy, gasping breaths, fighting to cease the rapid thudding of his heart. Clenching his teeth, Erik squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head back against the tiled wall, counting breaths.

 _One, two, three. One, two, three._

It didn't work. There were only images of a mad, bearded man and blood everywhere—covering his skin, the chair he was tied to, dribbling down his wrists to clump at the ties. His own voice ringing in his ears, raised and desperate and distorted. A blinding, white-hot slice of pain that seemed to go on endlessly.

 _"Jalil! Ya Allah, what are you_ doing _, man? You're going to kill him!"_

 _"Then_ — _let_ — _him_ — _fucking_ — _die!"_

Struggling with the remains of his control, he forced himself to recall the image of Christine—her smile, her laugh, her kiss. But no, it wasn't working—she was quickly slipping away, replaced by a stinking tent and a red-stained knife, coated with his own blood—

"No," he gasped, shaking his head. "No—think about Christine—" Another gasp. Choking back the stinging heat in his eyes, he willed his darling angel back into his mind, anything to let himself drown in her once more. _Anything_ —her voice, a memory—

 _"Erik—where are we going?"_

 _"Patience, Christine. We're almost there."_

 _"I'd have a better idea if I could actually see where we're_ going— _"_

 _"Yes, well, that would ruin the surprise!"_

* * *

 ** _July 1977_**

The two lovebirds walked across the little parking spot, one guiding the other through the dark night. Christine shivered a little from a gust of wind that blew her way, feeling the cool air kiss her chapped lips and intwine into her hair. It was comforting to feel Erik's thin hand covering her eyes, a surge of warmth. He walked close behind her, an arm firmly wrapped around her waist to keep her from slipping.

She _was_ after all bereft of her sight, and so took full advantage of the opportunity to lean into his strong form, feeling his warmth encompass her.

It had been the most wonderful night. When Erik had first asked her to spend her time with him on Saturday night—her only free night—she had agreed with a small smile, hiding the giddy butterflies flitting about in her stomach.

She had expected an enjoyable dinner and perhaps a walk in the park. She _hadn't_ expected Erik bringing her to a lavish restaurant. The manager allowed them a reserved space away from prying eyes, since Erik enjoyed his privacy and Christine was growing more recognisable with each show. They had exchanged pleasant conversation, and she was sure that she had giggled too much. Erik himself had worn a broad grin the entire time, ordering her extravagant dishes that left her belly delightfully full.

After the dinner she was even more surprised when he wanted to bring her somewhere else. And then he had taken her hand—to which she intertwined her fingers with his—and led her through an unfamiliar path before instructing her to close her eyes and covering them with his own to make sure she obeyed.

"Okay, just a few more steps," he said. She could feel his breath slightly above her ear, hot and moist to the chilly night air. He nudged her forwards slightly, and she took a few more blind steps before he tightened his grip around her waist, signalling to stop. It may have been in her mind, but she could have sworn his smooth voice sounded almost _giddy_ when he announced, "We're here!"

"Um, Erik, your hands are still over my eyes," she pointed out.

"Yes, well, I still need to get something before you can open them. I'm going to take my hands away—no peeking, Christine, okay?"

The only thing that kept her from going against him was the fact that he was clearly excited about this surprise. It was sweet, really, that he had taken the time to plan their date. So with a defeated sigh, she nodded.

She immediately missed the warmth of his palm against her face at the feel of cool air hitting her skin, and scrunched her eyes uncomfortably. She heard him shuffling around behind her, and then his breath was warm against her ear once more.

"Open your eyes," he whispered. A shiver definitely not due to the cold rippled through her, and taking a breath, she opened her eyes.

They were standing in an open space, and Christine's breath caught.

They stood in front of an ice rink. It was not too large—quite small for Moscow, actually—but the fairy lights that hung above it lit the entire rink up with a white, luminescent glow. Towards the left was the back of a church, its rich architecture magnificent in the moonlight.

It was beautiful, and it was all theirs.

Christine covered her gasp of delight with a gloved hand, feeling tears stinging her eyes. Back when her father had still been alive, their favourite past time was ice-skating. This was still in Sweden—before she moved—but there had been a similar cathedral at their favourite rink, rising tall and gleaming in the evening light. She could almost see her younger self now: her young, chubby features stretched into a wide grin, speeding along as her father laughed and chased her.

Erik stepped towards the side, watching her carefully. His smoothened dark hair fell across his forehead, lending him a boyish look for his age of twenty-nine. His breathtaking golden irises observed her every feature with a guardedness that would only drop, she supposed, with the confirmation of her pleasure.

She didn't hesitate in giving him a wide smile, overwhelmed.

"Surprise," he said softly, one hand rising to reveal two dangling pairs of ice-skates, blades shining in the glowing night.

A laugh of disbelief escaped her. "How did you know...?" she trailed off, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Meg," he said simply.

The few times Erik had been left alone with Meg was during that first week, when Christine hadn't yet expected him to be at the stage door when she emerged. Meg would often have to call her name more than once for her to realise he was waiting for her. He couldn't have asked her that early on, could he...?

"Do you like it?" he cut off her thoughts, raising an eyebrow. He stood with a casual nonchalance, but when she looked closely, Christine could see his forced posture, the nervousness in his frame.

She let out another laugh, bewildered that he couldn't tell how touched she was by his gesture. "Like it? Erik, I _love_ it," she smiled brightly.

His relief was instant. Letting out a breath, Erik's features relaxed into a full smile for the first time in her presence. She had seen wry smirks, hesitant looks and the small quirk of lips, but was completely unprepared for the way his expression transformed into one of utter happiness, making her heart skip a beat within her chest.

 _He is so beautiful_ , she thought to herself as his golden, smouldering eyes creased slightly at the corners, staring at hers with mirth.

"I'm glad," he told her honestly, still smiling. Then, dangling the shoes in front of her face, "Shall we?"

Ten minutes later saw them zooming across the ice rink together, their laughter echoing around the empty rink. She thought she was good at ice-skating, but Erik was _magnificent_. He drifted across the ice with a fluidity and grace she could never hope to match, even with her many years training in ballet. His movements were effortless yet still holding the regal, impassive posture that was so indefinitely _him._ It was a privilege to be his partner in their elegant movements.

Breathless, Christine skated across the ice and clutched at the railing, still laughing. Erik followed soon after, the railing shaking slightly as his weight collapsed against it.

"God, I haven't done this in _ages_ ," she gasped, then nudged his arm with her elbow. "You didn't say you could skate!" she reprimanded. He gave her a cheeky grin and turned so that he was leaning his back against the railing, facing the rink. Elbows wrapped in a thick cloak rested on the top of the bar.

"I have too much free time on my hands," Erik shrugged, brushing a gloved hand over his hair, the strands catching onto tiny droplets of ice. Then, shooting her an impish grin, "Hopefully it won't remain that way."

Christine released a light laugh. "No, I don't think it will," she agreed.

His grin widened.

They stood in silence for a few moments, catching their breaths. Christine eventually turned so that she was facing the rink as well and they both looked out into the glowing white ice, a stark contrast against the darkness of the night. Soft golden light bathed them in a warm glow. It felt intimate; romantic.

Suddenly struck with an idea, Christine turned to face her companion, holding out her gloved hand. He looked at it, then directed a questioning gaze towards her.

"Dance with me?" she requested then seeing his surprise, quickly elaborated. "My father used to take me skating before he passed," she explained, the familiar ache at the thought of her late father causing a lump to form in her throat. She looked down at the icy rink, trying to compose herself. Their skates nudged on the ice. "It was my favourite thing to do with him—apart from listen to him play his violin, of course. And he would always take me by the hand and lead me to the middle of the rink, and he'd twirl me around until I got dizzy."

She could feel Erik's burning gaze on her. Her cheeks flushed—of course he would think it was a stupid idea.

Quickly dropping her hand, she shrugged and shuffled a foot, staring intently at her skates. "Forget I asked," she muttered, swallowing thickly. Refusing to look at him, she turned to skate towards the exit, but was surprised when he grabbed her hand.

Instantly, her gaze whipped towards his. His expression was unreadable as he slowly tugged, skating backwards as she followed his lead. His other hand found hers, creating a little ring of space between their bodies.

"Never assume that I will refuse something you ask of me, Christine," he told her.

His gaze never left hers as he gently released one hand, holding her wrist and bringing it up to his shoulder before resting his own against her hip. He held her carefully as if she were fragile, glove gentle against her cloak.

And then, slowly, he began circling the ice, dragging skates around as she surely followed. Their feet moved in perfect tandem, marking a ring onto the ice.

It was a perfect picture: a man and a woman in the centre of an ice rink, the dark colour of their cloaks a contrast against the white ground. The stars shined brightly and fairy lights decorated the spaces above their heads, softly lending a faint glow. Two sets of eyes never looking away; the first a fierce cobalt and the other a burning gold, rare and ardent, melting into swirling whiskey. No music, no voices—just the mingle of steady breaths and racing heartbeats, both electrified, both _alive_.

"You are so beautiful," Erik murmured after a while, breaking their silence. His breath evaporated into mist, rising above them in a hazy cloud.

She flushed but never left his gaze. She assumed he thought as much from the way he would look at her at the end of every performance—with a tender, appreciative expression only reserved for her—but had never heard him say the words aloud. It brought a small, shy smile to her lips.

"I really love spending time with you, Erik." It was a plain statement next to all he had done for her tonight, she knew. But it brought a tiny curve to his lips, glowing eyes softening.

"I've never liked being around other people," he told her, a hand reaching up to play with a single curl that had fallen in front of her eyes. Twirling the strand, he continued, "Their words are meaningless, their joyful expressions empty and trivial. I would easily give up their company." His voice was a velvet undertone, resonating with a quiet strength that made her lightheaded. "But you, Christine—"

He broke off, stopping their slow swaying abruptly. For the first time, she saw a hint of unsureness in his eyes.

"I don't know," he shrugged helplessly, dropping his gaze to their skates. She watched him shuffle his feet, the powerful, intense man becoming a defenceless, shy boy in front of her eyes. "I don't know how I feel," he repeated. "I hear you singing in my head, I dream about kissing you in my sleep. You're in everything I see." Then, meeting her gaze, "I think I'm in love with you."

Her breath caught in her throat. He was looking at her vulnerably, fearfully. His expression revealed just how much power she yielded over him; she could easily break him if she wanted to, and he would not fight back.

It made her wonder how he had come to live the life he had. Had he been hurt before? Was he the object others directed their anger onto, a receiver of pain and heartbreak?

Or was he just a lonely boy, yearning to love and be loved?

Meg had told her that love was not something found so easily. Back when they were giggling gossips, Meg would firmly lay out the rules of dating. Don't be too shy, but don't be too bold. Bite your lip, but never let him see how much you like him. And most importantly, never, ever, _ever_ tell someone you loved them on the first date.

She had met Erik and her life had become a speeding whirlwind. One tender look from him and she was melting under his gaze, heart thudding painfully in her chest. There was no doubt that he was reserved, that he gave no one the chance to really _know_ him for who he was, preferring to slink back into the shadows instead of conversing with others.

She didn't know if she loved him. She wondered if she _could_ love him from how quickly their relationship had progressed.

But at that moment, there was no doubt that she felt very strongly for this man—this strange, wonderful man who was tentative and brought her roses every night, who was quiet yet brimming with a passion she had never known in anyone else.

So she pushed Meg's words aside and told him the truth.

"I think I might love you too," she confessed in a whisper.

Her heart fluttered a little at the sight of a growing smile on his lips, his breaths uneven and so close to her own mouth. "That's—well—" he stammered, grinning all the while. "That's bloody fantastic."

A laugh escaped Christine's lips, shaking through her body. The moment had been so sweet, so beautiful—and then they were both doubling over, gasping in their laugher, staring at each other with their newfound secret knowledge.

"It is," she finally agreed after catching her breath. "Erik, I—"

He pulled her towards him and pressed his lips to hers before she could say anything else.

* * *

Back in the bathroom of a small flat, the same man, four years older, sat slumped against the wall. His bandages had loosened around his face, palms spread on the floor, chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths.

He smiled.

* * *

 **A/N:** So, there's more unraveling about Erik and Christine's past as well as what happened in Afghanistan. Erik and Christine are both trying to go back to normal, but it's not that easy. And I'm not sure if some of you remember in my first author's note that a certain _special guest_ will be featured in this story, but there was a tiny glimpse of him/her in this chapter, though I really didn't make it obvious at all. Still, is anyone up for guessing?

So don't forget to drop review and let me know! It never fails to bring a smile to my face.


	4. Truth To Your Lies

**A/N:** Thank you once again for the reviews, follows and favourites! Special thanks to Leona and Guest, who I haven't been able to respond to. Know that your reviews are read and appreciated!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album _Sigh No More_. The song featured in this fic is called  Awake My Soul—another beautiful song. Just, Mumford and Sons, man. They're great and Ramin agrees with me.

* * *

 _How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes,_

 _I struggle to find any truth in your lies._

 _And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know,_

 _My weakness I feel I must finally show._

* * *

 ** _January 1, 1978_**

It was snowing outside. The roads were covered with a thick coat of white, snowflakes falling and adding its layer to the ground. The streets were empty, the shops closed and quiet. Everyone was huddled in their own homes, safe and warm, contently enjoying their new year in cosiness.

Two lovers lay asleep on the bed together, legs tangled underneath the blankets, skin pressed to skin. Clothes messily littered the floor, along with other objects—a pair of shoes here, an opened box there. The desk was clattered with books and newspapers, along with some simple earrings and bracelets. A golden pocket watch sat in a corner, carefully wrapped in its chain.

It was then that the man blinked sleepily, roused from his sleep. He let out a deep yawn, mind still slow and hazy from sleep, and shifted a numb arm—before realising that it was trapped under a head, its owner still sleeping soundly. He looked down, recognising the wild curls and heart-shaped face, tucked into the crook of his shoulder, snuggling against him.

The image brought a small smile to his lips. Erik pressed a kiss to her curls before lying back, staring at the ceiling. He let out a content sigh, thinking back upon the events of last night.

Christine had invited him to her place to celebrate the New Year. She and Meg had held a small party, one compromising of a few close friends—mostly those who worked in the theatre. Erik had initially been reluctant at the idea of being surrounded by others, but Christine had reminded him that he visited the theatre frequently enough to be well acquainted with—or to visually recognise, since he kept to himself most of the time—most of the guests. So he had rolled his eyes and grudgingly agreed, knowing that he was bound to come from the start. She had grinned triumphantly and planted a solid kiss on his cheek.

After all, he could deny her nothing.

He hadn't expected the night to run so smoothly—or that he would actually _enjoy_ himself. At most, he thought he would have been sitting towards the side nursing a glass of vodka—for Christine had _promised_ him vodka—and watch the festivities sullenly. They were exchanging gifts when he knocked, dressed in a simple dress shirt and trousers. Christine had pulled the door open, looking divine and cheery in a bright yellow dress, before ushering him in and introducing him to five other people who were laying around the coffee table, teasing and poking at each other as they tore open gifts.

They had welcomed him with friendly smiles and warm handshakes, inviting them to join their little circle. Meg smiled at him in greeting, leaning against a muscular arm of a black-haired man Erik assumed to be the leading ballet dancer. Christine had joined him and urged him to converse, and at the end of the night, they were all laughing at his witty jokes, entranced by his magnetic voice and dry sarcasm.

And when it was midnight they had cheered and hugged; Christine had grabbed him by his collar and laughingly pressed a kiss to his mouth. He had responded enthusiastically and deepened the kiss, pulling her waist to his until she was gasping for breath. They had been teased by the others for that, but Erik didn't care from the look of sheer adoration Christine had given him.

God, he loved her.

After they left she had urged him to stay, and, bidding Meg a good night, had pulled him into her room and shut the door before pulling him down for a deep, ravishing kiss. While they had been intimate before it had felt different then; electrifying, almost. Each touch she bestowed him, each press of lips and tug of hair was cherished, the sensation frozen in time by his careful mind, tucked safely in the depths of his consciousness so that he could remember the feel of her. And when they both lay on the bed, lying on their backs and breathless, she had whispered her love into his ear and pulled him close to her, stroking his hair until he drifted off to sleep.

As he gazed down at his sleeping angel, Erik thanked the lucky stars that had urged him to visit the theatre five months ago. She was truly a godsend, his Christine—his one and only, his very heart and soul. He loved her with his entire being.

Bringing up a hand, he softly threaded fingers through her lavish curls. The movement roused her; soon enough she was shifting against him, eyebrows scrunched up adorably as eyelids fluttered open to reveal deep blue eyes. They blinked sleepily, slowly adjusting to the dim shine of the room before she tilted her head upwards, meeting his own.

"Good morning," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. She gazed up at him hazily, still in a dream-like state before her eyes cleared, a small smile gracing her lips as she remembered the events of last night.

"Happy New Year," she whispered. The small hand that had been resting upon his bare chest grazed upwards to stroke his strong jaw, thumb brushing delicately across his skin. Erik shivered at her touch.

"Indeed," he agreed wholeheartedly. He had never felt so content than he had last night with a casual arm draped over the woman he loved, surrounded by people he wasn't forced to interact with, greeting the new year with the feel of her lips against his, her laugh breathed into his mouth.

It had felt so normal. He had never been granted a taste of normalcy before.

Christine's own smile grew and she tangled fingers in his hair, dragging his mouth down to hers for a slow, lazy kiss. Her mouth was soft against his, tender and sweet. Even though she had touched and loved him with her body the entirety of last night, his heart still thudded fiercely within his chest.

He didn't pull back when they parted, letting their lips hover within inches of each other as he pressed their foreheads together. Her breath was warm upon her lips, light and wispy. Her eyes gazed into his with a certain spark—a spark he recognised whenever she wanted him.

A slow smile spread across his lips. "Do you have any plans today?" he asked quietly, a hint of suggestiveness in his tone as his thumb brushed her cheek.

In response she shifted closer, pressing her nude body against his. Her delicious curves met his hard chest, electrifying and intimate. It sent a hot flush of desire through him, demanding and begging to feel her upon him, surrounding him, sheltering him again.

* * *

 **SMUT**

* * *

Grinning, Erik pressed his lips to hers once more. It was heaven to feel her thumb brushing his neck, the other trapped between his cheek and pillow. Her mouth was soft and yielding against his, parting and sighing contentedly. He brushed the roof of her mouth with his tongue, drawing out a low moan from her which only served to heighten his desire.

Fully awake now, Erik let his hands grow bold. He dragged fingers down her neck, collar, shoulder and arms before resting on her hips, stroking softly. Their mouths were still locked together, their kiss slow and wet. Slowly trailing a hand upwards, Erik let his fingers graze her breast, and she moaned insistently into his mouth, arching and pushing her chest into his hand. She broke the kiss to gasp for air and his lips latched onto her jaw, kissing down her neck as she threaded fingers into his hair and _tugged_.

"Erik," Christine gasped, eyes closed in bliss. In return he moaned against her skin, relishing at how she curved against him. At that moment, he knew with certainty that she wanted him like he wanted her—like he _always_ wanted her.

He pushed at her until she lay on her back and hovered over her, letting his fingers drift downwards, trailing over smooth skin. He slowed at her navel, stroking her hipbones softly. Her skin was so smooth, so soft under his hands; her mouth moving hot and insistent against his. He wanted to touch her all over, to make her sigh and gasp and moan out his name, to make himself hers over and over again.

When his hands disappeared between their bodies he groaned, the sound catching deep in his throat as he felt the evidence of her desire. God, he would never get enough of this, of her. To know that she was willing and gasping under him, writhing as lithe fingers disappeared within her, inside her—it sent a shot of heat through his body, travelling down his spine and gathering in his lower stomach.

Erik trailed his lips downwards, loving lips moving and caressing her curves, drawing forth the very moans he had dreamed of. A glance upwards showed Christine with her head thrown back, eyes shut tightly and pink lips parted. His mouth watered at the sight of her, feeling a surge of intense longing for this woman. And when he disappeared underneath the blanket, the fingers that had tangled through his hair now tightened against his scalp, tugging at tufts of hair until he gasped against her most intimate parts.

The room was filled with her soft cries and whimpers. Head tossed to the side, blankets gathered at her hips, Christine writhed and arched beneath Erik's talented mouth, hidden underneath the thick cover. It was a terribly erotic image when he thought about it; a picture which only made him harder with want, drowning in desire. He wanted to do this all day to her, to give her something to blush about when she thought about him, to make her _sing_ in ways nobody had done before. Head buried between her legs, fingers stroking her body, he drove her forwards—and then she was shaking beneath him, clenching around his fingers, sweet against his mouth, his name music from her lips.

Christine collapsed against the pillow, gasping and sated. He peppered kisses against her skin as she struggled to catch her breath. His lips graced her hipbone, her navel, her ribs. He leant a cheek against the rapid thudding of her heart, feeling her chest rise and fall beneath him.

It gave him a triumphant satisfaction to know that _he_ had done this. His own desire was hard and throbbing against her hip, but to listen to her light, wispy breath as her heart slowed its insistent thudding—

A breathless laugh escaped her lips, shaking him out of his desirous thoughts. Erik lifted his head, resting chin against her sternum as he grinned slyly up at her. It was a testament to how pleased she was that she didn't roll her eyes at his cockiness as she always would, instead gazing down at him with hooded eyes and fully acknowledging his success in pleasuring her.

"Good?" he offered, a wolfish smile on his lips.

He watched with a certain delight as she rolled her eyes, breaking the spell. "Now you're just fishing for compliments," she reprimanded, yet Erik saw the begrudging smile she wore. His grin widened triumphantly.

"Yes," he agreed bluntly. There was no shame in admitting how smug he always felt at making her come undone before him.

Another laugh escaped her lips, this one severely amused and slightly disbelieving. "Shut up," she giggled. "Come here." He eagerly manoeuvred his way back to her supple lips, swallowing her laugh.

Christine began to trail her hands downwards, making Erik let out a low moan when her fingers disappeared between their bodies. Slight shifting, and then their bodies were joined once more. He sighed into her mouth at the feeling of her around him, sheltering him with her heat. _This_ was where he belonged—circled by her arms, trapped between hooked legs, pulling him towards her as their bodies moved together in that age-old dance, beautiful and ravishing and enchanting.

Before long he was pushing deep into her, both of them gasping each time their bodies joined. Heat was building within him, sweet and unbearable. Long, plunging strokes—and then he was losing himself within her, gasping and moaning and chanting her name, Christine, Christine, Christine.

Erik collapsed on top of her, now being the one who was struggling to catch his breath. He felt her fingers knife through his thick hair, stroking and murmuring soothingly as he buried his face into the skin where neck met shoulder, breathing heavily. Dark curls tickled his nose.

* * *

 **END OF SMUT**

* * *

A sudden thought came to his mind. "Christine," he said after a while, voice still ragged and unsteady, "we were safe, weren't we? I mean—"

"I'm on the pill," she assured.

Sighing in relief, he pressed a tired kiss to her neck. He laid back, body thrumming with pleasure.

While he would love to eventually settle down with his angel—and the thought of marrying Christine sent a surge of longing within his chest—there was no guarantee that any children they may have would be safe, provided they _did_ marry, and that Christine wanted children, of course. The thought of marriage had never appealed to him before, and with his career Erik assumed that it would be too risky to get involved with someone. It was too risky being with Christine at all, but as long as she remained oblivious to his occupation and he was careful to cover up his tracks, Erik was positive that nobody would make the link between opera diva and master assassin. Nobody had, after all, connected the masked Phantom to the recluse Erik before. That didn't make it any less risky.

But he couldn't resist Christine.

Of course, she didn't know that the same hands that made her cry out in pleasure had also been tainted with the blood of countless men. He wasn't proud of his occupation, especially since his darling was the opposite of everything he was. She was pure, untainted, innocent. He could never tell her—she would run from him.

And he was too selfish to give her the chance.

Did that make him a bad man? Probably. But he refused to overthink it—not when she induced such emotion within him, such happiness and sense of belonging.

A sudden loud, insistent beeping filled the room, disrupting their contented silence. With a jolt Erik realised that it was the emergency telephone the KGB had given him. Breathless and sated in the arms of the woman he loved, and the government was calling him to murder someone else. He vaguely wondered who it might be this time—a balding rich man, or a sly, sufficient target?

He swore, then in a flash, Erik was on his feet and hunting for his clothes. His head was pounding, still stupefied by the sweet pleasure she had given him. He was reeling. Why did he even chance staying over at Christine's when he knew there was always the possibility of being called in urgently? He hadn't received an emergency call for over six months, but he _knew_ he should not have taken it for granted, _knew_ what he signed up for when he had joined the KGB. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ And of all times, why now? And why _here,_ with his sweet, innocent Christine who only thought the best of him, who didn't know he had to leave her to slit someone's throat?

But he should have expected it, been prepared for something like this to happen. There would surely be questions from his angel, for she was curious and demanding, and he would have to make up some other lie to avoid the subject.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Christine sat up, confused and slightly dazed from the after-effects of their pleasure. "Erik, I thought you didn't have a telephone?" she questioned, puzzled. His urgent dressing made her frown. "Who was that? Where are you going? Erik, I thought you didn't have any plans for today—"

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart, but I have to go," he apologised quickly, finally fully dressed and buckling his belt into place. He wished he could stay and beg her forgiveness, especially for what he was about to do, but knew that he needed to leave as quickly as possible. If his emergency device was beeping, it could only mean that their target was getting away. "It's an emergency. I'll explain everything later, I promise."

"What?" she queried, eyes clearing now as she watched him hastily move around the room, collecting his wallet, keys, jacket. He was always so calm, composed—it was unsettling to see him rushing about. "What emergency? Do you need me to come—"

"No!" he shouted, and she flinched, startled. "No," he repeated in a slightly softer tone, "don't come—it's a family emergency."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You told me you didn't have any family."

He swore, cursing his carelessness. He was running out of _time_. "I can't explain right now," he said impatiently, refusing to meet her eyes.

Her frown deepened. "What's going on? Erik, you're scaring me."

He paused, shooting a look of protective concern at her. All thoughts of his duty towards the government fled from his mind, replaced by images of his Christine in danger—from him, because of him. Everything within him screamed at him to leave her, to cut all ties to ensure such a thing never happened to her. His heart clenched painfully in his chest to think of living without her.

"Scared?" he repeated. "Why? Are you being threatened, Christine?" The mere thought made his blood begin to boil, and he looked at her sternly. "Who is it?"

She was taken aback by the urgency of his admission. "What? No," she answered, bewildered, "what—Erik, this isn't funny. What are you—"

"You have nothing to fear, Christine," he declared fiercely, crossing the room to the bed where she sat with the covers hiding her modesty, and taking her hands in his tightly. "I'll protect you, whatever it is, whoever it is," he stated firmly, looking deeply into her electric blue eyes. "You always come first, Christine."

Her eyes flickered with alarm and she jerked her hands back. "Erik, what? I don't—"

Realising he had assumed wrongly, Erik abruptly stood. His emotions were getting the best of him, and right now, he couldn't afford that. He had a job to do—a government to serve. They would not forgive his tardiness, and if they were to ever discover that he had been with _Christine_ —

"I have to go," he said shortly, offering no explanation. Christine's protests were met with a deaf ear as he strode out of the room, leaving the scent of lovemaking in the air. She sat with sheets bunched around her waist, completely at a loss.

The golden pocket watch she had gifted him lay silently on her desk.

* * *

Erik didn't return that day.

Christine had waited, at first. It must have been something important for him to rush off so suddenly, _especially_ after their passionate morning. She knew how much Erik cherished their time together, always ensuring her pleasure as well as his and always eager to touch.

Yes, Erik would not have left if it wasn't for something urgent. She only wished she knew _what_ had occurred.

His words bothered her. He had asked if she was threatened—even the _idea_ of it seemed absurd to her. Who would threaten her? She was a simple opera singer, a woman who spent her days in a theatre with harmless eccentrics. She lived with her best friend and never gave her address to anyone other than those closest to her, with whom she had been friends with most of her life.

But Erik had been so fierce, so wild. His stare burned into hers when he had asked—no, _demanded_ if she was in danger. Why would he think such a thing? Was _he_ in danger? And the fact that he had _lied_ to her...

Christine had half a mind to bundle up in her coat and venture out into the snow to Erik's place. It wouldn't be too bad a walk, since the snow had stopped falling and people were now braving the street. But then with a jolt she realised that she didn't know where he lived.

It sent a deep surge of disbelief to her core. _How_ could she not know where he lived, after _five months_ of being with him? Yes, she had never had a reason to since he would always pick her up from the theatre, but surely there was a time when she had visited his home? Christine searched her mind for a forgotten address, a chair, perhaps, that Erik favoured, a bed she might have curled up with him in—but came up with nothing.

So it was true, then. Five months and he had never invited her to his home, never even _mentioned_ the idea of a simple get together for lunch or dinner, or _more_. It was an ugly feeling, to realise that the person she'd been with—the person she _loved_ —didn't even trust her well enough to disclose his home address.

By lunchtime, Christine was irritated enough to want to venture out into the cold. Meg had been as puzzled as her upon hearing about Erik's abrupt departure, but while she had been sympathetic and comforting, Christine felt an intense urge to leave her home. She didn't want to linger in her bedroom, where the sheets were still ruffled, reminding her of how Erik had held her, touched her, kissed her that morning. Thinking about their lovemaking felt physically painful, yet all she wanted to do was have him back in her arms again.

It was impossible to be angry at someone you loved, but she was determined. If anything, she deserved an apology and explanation, and she would _not_ let her feelings rule her actions when she saw him again.

Trudging down the street, her boots left deep footprints in the snow as she walked towards her favourite café. She needed a strong dose of coffee since it was too early for alcohol, and ordered a black with no sugar when she reached the counter. Her fingers tapped incessantly as she waited for her drink. It was infuriating to think that she was sulking because of _Erik_ , but she was too angry to do anything else.

Being angry was easier than admitting how hurt she was by his actions, anyway.

Just as she was about to snap at the barista to hurry up, a familiar male voice called her name.

"Christine?"

She turned from the counter to see a handsome young man, most definitely in his early twenties. Stylishly cut blonde hair fell over his forehead, and blue eyes a shade lighter than hers stared back at her. He wore a simple blue coat, and she noted that his scarf matched his eyes.

Christine blinked, surprised. "Raoul?" she questioned incredulously.

A slow grin spread over the the blonde's face, eyes lighting up like Christmas lights. "So it is you!" he said enthusiastically. "Wow—I'm so glad to see you, Christine!"

"Me too," she replied—and was surprised at the genuine honesty in her tone. She and Raoul had been friends since childhood, but had drifted apart as they grew. He had been a good friend to her, a dependent boy who had always listened to her troubles, who never failed to encourage her to keep singing whenever she felt like giving up. When her father had passed, Raoul had been by her side at the funeral, even if his parents had heavily objected against it.

Raoul's parents worked in the government. He had been ashamed when she had first found out he was part of the few elite who had certain benefits due to their administrative positions. Raoul had detested it, and made no attempt to conceal this from Christine. _Nomenklatura,_ he had bitterly called them. He often declared that he would run away when he was older and live like a _proper_ Soviet, one who shared the lives of everyday people, who had worked honestly and had the same income as everyone else did.

It seemed that Raoul didn't follow through with his plan. From his cashmere scarf to designer boots, Christine knew that he was still with his parents. Surprisingly, she wasn't bitter over his decision to stay with his parents. Slightly shocked, since he had been fiercely adamant about it, but not bitter.

She shook herself out of her thoughts as he posed her a question. "Sorry?"

"Are you busy?" he repeated, then gestured towards the counter where two steaming mugs of coffee sat. Christine blinked—only moments before hers was the only mug there. Had she truly been so distracted?

"No," she found herself saying, and then Raoul was leading them to an empty booth and loosening his scarf, insisting on catching up. She sat opposite him and blew softly at her coffee.

"How are you?" Raoul asked conversationally, some snow falling off his light hair as he shook his head. His smile was sweet and genuine, and idly she noticed how his dimples stood out, so different from Erik's quirk of lips.

 _No_ , she firmly told herself. _No thinking about Erik right now. You haven't seen Raoul for_ years— _you should catch up._ But putting Erik off her mind was too difficult, especially when she remembered how he drew shivers from her spine only this morning, how he kissed every inch of her body with his thin lips...

Raoul's lips were full, she noted. He was the complete opposite of Erik in so many ways: golden hair, sky-blue eyes, boyish smile.

"Christine?" Raoul was saying, and she blinked once more, realising she had unintentionally drifted off once again.

She sighed and took a sip of the bitter coffee, scorching her tongue in the process. Her eyes watered and she blinked back the water gathering at the creases. "I'm sorry," she apologised, "yes, I'm fine. How was your new year?"

"Fine," he answered shortly, shooting her a concerned look. "Christine, are you sure you're alright?" His hand came to rest lightly on the table, as if reaching out to take hers. She didn't let him.

Christine forced a smile and nodded, but Raoul simply rolled his eyes.

"Christine, we used to be best friends. I've known you for years," he pointed out, "I think I can tell when something's wrong." Leaning back, he folded his arms against his chest and lifted an eyebrow as if in invitation for her to confide in him.

She sighed once more, shoulders slumping in defeat. "There is," she admitted. "I'm sorry, Raoul—it's been so _long_ , and I'm so happy to see you, I really am, but—"

"Christine," he interrupted. Blue orbs met blue, one set confused and slightly hurt, the other warm and knowing. "Don't be sorry. Come on, tell me what's got you so upset."

"Oh Raoul, you don't have to listen to my rambling—"

"I'm your _friend_ , Christine, it's okay," Raoul assured.

Finally, with yet _another_ sigh, she confessed, "It's my boyfriend."

It was odd to think of Erik as her _boyfriend_. The word felt foreign on her tongue. They had never put a label on their relationship, preferring to simply acknowledge that they were _together._

But essentially, Erik _was_ her boyfriend.

"Ah," Raoul said knowingly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Of course. It always comes down to a man, doesn't it? Or, well, a woman, in my case."

Christine groaned and leaned her elbows on the table and before long, she was spilling out her feelings to her childhood friend. "Everything was going so well!" she exclaimed. "We've been together five months and he's just the most amazing man I've ever met in my life. We spent the New Year at my place, which was just _wonderful_ , and I was so happy he came because he doesn't usually like social gatherings. And this morning was just so lovely and comfortable, but then he got a call and he just—left!"

"Without explanation?" Raoul asked, frowning.

"That's the thing, Raoul," she moaned, "he _did_ offer one, but he lied. He _lied_ to me, Raoul! He told me he didn't even have a telephone. He said there was a family emergency—but he doesn't have anyone, just like me. He was so wild, just—I don't know!" She dug her fingers into her hair, grasping at her locks in frustration. "And then I thought that maybe, I should go over to his place and yell at him for a bit, demand an explanation. But then I realised I don't even know where he _lives_ —"

"What?" Raoul interrupted incredulously. "You've been with this man _five months_ and you don't know where he _lives_? Christine, that's dangerous!"

Christine stared at him. " _Dangerous?_ " she repeated disbelievingly. "Why is everyone so concerned about my safety all of a sudden?"

His eyes widened and he looked around quickly, voice reduced to a hush. "Christine," he whispered, "are you being threatened?"

"What?" she screeched.

"Keep your voice down," Raoul hissed, noting that some people were starting to stare.

But Christine was having none of it. "First Erik, now _you?_ _Why_ would anyone threaten me?" she demanded, voice rising in disbelief. "I have a total of _three_ friends—disregarding Meg's ones—and I'm a _singer_ , for god's sakes! I don't even know anyone remotely dangerous, unless it's Anton whenever set pieces malfunction—"

"Christine," Raoul interrupted once more, his voice quiet now. His eyes bored into hers gravely. "What does your Erik do for a living?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped when she realised that she didn't know. Christine sat back in her chair, stunned.

 _She didn't know_ _what he did for a living_. In all of their time together, Erik had always been strangely free during the days and always made a point to bring her lunch during rehearsals. There were times when he didn't contact her for days at a time, but this had been early on in their relationship and she had simply brushed it off as him being busy. She had asked him once or twice what his job was, but with a jolt she realised he would always distract her with a kiss or a touch or simple flattery until she was blushing and had completely forgotten what they were talking about.

But Erik always seemed to be better off. His clothing seemed modest, but she had once caught a glimpse of a branded tie around his neck, an expensive watch by his wrist. He brought her to lavish restaurants, treated her with gifts and necklaces without a care where others would struggle at the cost of such items. She had brushed it off before, but now the thought made her throat drop into her stomach in horror.

 _Where did he get all his money from?_

She met Raoul's eyes helplessly, shaking her head. "I don't—" Christine broke off, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh my god," she whispered, "I don't know. I don't know what he does, Raoul, I don't know where he lives—" A sob caught in her throat as another sudden thought came to mind. "I don't even know where he comes from, or anything about his past— _I don't know anything about him!"  
_

Christine was close to hyperventilating, unable to believe that she was in love with a man who kept just about everything in his life a secret from her. He was always eager to know about _her_ , to ask about her childhood days and fondest memories. If she ever did the same, he would twist the question or tease her or kiss her to avoid the subject. _How_ could she have let this happen?

Who was this stranger?

During her internal panic Raoul leaned forwards, reaching a hand across the table once more. He took her hand in his and squeezed it tightly. "Christine," he said seriously, "don't worry. I know this is bad, but I can fix this. I can help you."

"How?" she demanded in a hushed whisper, feeling deranged and confused and hurt all at once. "I love him, and I don't even know him! How could you _possibly_ help?"

Raoul listened to her ramble silently, and even while she posed legitimate questions he wasn't moved, was never unconvinced. He took a deep breath, then looked straight into her eyes.

"I have ways, Christine. I can find out who he is."

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, quite careless of Christine not to notice, but when you're in love you do tend to be a little stupidly blind, no? Any ideas as to what Raoul is planning?

In the meantime, leave a review and let me know what you think!


	5. I'll Just Let You Fall

**A/N:** Thank you once again to the positive response last chapter!

 **Regarding dates:** I'm so sorry, I got the dates mixed up. To clarify: the Soviets only really got involved in the Afghan War in December 1979 and Erik got recruited in February 1980, serving for 10 months. Therefore the present day would be January 1981 instead of late 1980 which I had originally written down. So to write it down in a timeline:

 **June 1977:** Erik and Christine meet.  
 **Early 1979:** Erik and Christine get married.  
 **December 1979** : Soviets invade Afghanistan.  
 **January 1980:** Erik receives a letter from the government enlisting him in the war.  
 **February 1980:** Erik leaves for the war.  
 **January 1981:** Erik returns from the war.

For the second half of the chapter, if you know of it, try to envision the theatre in _Mystery Legends: The Phantom of the Opera_. It's a PC game which I've heard is quite chilling. A walkthrough is available to watch on YouTube.

Also, there is a Game of Thrones reference in here! See if you can spot it.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album _Sigh No More_. The song featured in this fic is called  Awake My Soul—another beautiful song. However, I _do_ own the theatre mentioned in this chapter! But not the legend that goes along with it. Damn.

* * *

 _Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all,_

 _But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall._

 _Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,_

 _But your soul you must keep, totally free._

* * *

"Excellent job, everyone!" Anton called, nodding approvingly at the cast on the stage, holding their finishing pose with a slight shake in their arms. "That's it for today. I expect this energy and awareness at Monday's rehearsal—don't be late!"

Brushing hair out of her eyes, Christine dropped her spread arms and let out a breath. Anton had been understandably demanding for the last few sessions since they were to showcase the next production next week. Christine was relieved to only have performances a week, though—Anton had excused her (albeit reluctantly) from the customary eight shows, instead assigning her understudy, Natalia, to the role.

 _Time to rest_ , she thought to herself.

Immediately she felt guilty. This extra time was not meant for resting; it was to spend time with her suffering husband. She was relieved from her job to be a supportive wife, not spend an extra hour in bed. And Christine was determined to be as supportive as she could, to offer her Erik the comfort he deserved, to relieve him from his pain and _heal_ him.

With that thought in mind, Christine hopped off the stage, smiled towards her cast mates and headed towards the seats. She began packing her score into her bag, stuffing in playbills and pens. She was so busy trying to pull her scarf out that she didn't notice Meg in front of her.

"Lunch tomorrow?"

Christine jumped and dropped her scarf. She looked up with a scowl to see Meg cheekily grinning down at her. She had taken off her tutu to stand in a simple leotard, and she had loosened the ties on her ballet shoes, now dangling them from a hand. Her blonde curls were stark against the white costume.

"For heaven's sakes, Meg, you scared me!" Christine exclaimed, pressing a hand to her rapidly beating chest.

Meg simply shrugged. "You should have expected it."

She _did_ have a point—Meg had always been prone to scaring Christine for fun, especially when they had been living together. "Okay, yes, I should have," Christine grudgingly admitted. "But it's been a long day, in my defence."

Meg raised an eyebrow, but chose not to comment. "Lunch tomorrow?" she simply repeated, staring at Christine with bright, inquiring hazel eyes.

Back when Erik had still been in the war, Christine's weekends had always been empty and hollow. She remembered the first few times she had been alone, sitting around with a book and desperately trying to distract herself from the lonely, quiet house. Meg had since then transformed her weekends by spending her lunches with the husbandless wife, always eager to cheer her up.

But Erik was back now, and Christine knew she needed to remain with him.

The brunette shook her head apologetically. "I want to spend time with Erik, Meg," she reminded gently.

Her friend's eyes widened in remembrance. "Oh, yeah," Meg said quickly, "of course, Christine. I'm sorry, I completely—"

"Forgot?"

Meg bit her lip guiltily and reluctantly nodded. Christine sighed.

"Don't worry about it, Meg," she said gently, shaking her head. "It's not like you've seen him since—"

"Oh, then why don't I come over and see him?" Meg perked up.

"—I, uh—no, I don't think that would be best."

The blonde frowned but nodded in understanding. "Alright," she agreed, "so I'll see you again on Monday?"

Christine smiled and nodded. "Thanks for understanding, Meg," she said gratefully.

"Of course," Meg smiled. She paused for a while, watching Christine bend down to retrieve her scarf. "How is he, by the way?" Meg asked as Christine wound the red wool around her neck, securing it with a loose knot. "Erik, I mean," she clarified.

Christine paused as she reached for her bag before slinging it around her shoulder. She gave Meg a shrug and a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "He's hurt," she sighed, "and scarred—both emotionally and physically."

She didn't elaborate, simply sighing once more before moving towards the exit. Meg followed with a heavy heart; she hadn't been too close to Erik, but he was a constant in Christine's life just as she was. And Erik—he had always been so strong, so composed and calm. It was difficult to think of him as anything less.

"He's injured?" Meg questioned, forehead creasing as she frowned. They stopped by the exit of the theatre.

The brunette nodded. "Badly," she muttered, looking down at her feet. "His entire face is bandaged."

A loud gasp was stifled as Meg hurried to cover her mouth. She looked into Christine's solemn eyes, barely concealing her horror. "Oh god, poor Erik!" she said, slowly lowering her hand from her mouth. "How bad is it?"

Christine didn't look at her. "He won't let me see."

"Must be really bad then," Meg realised, swallowing. She felt a dull ache at the thought of Erik injured in such a way, a surge of sympathy for the horrors he would have had to surpass. "But he _is_ getting better, right?" she implored worriedly.

Christine nodded firmly. "Yes," she answered, voice laced with resolution and confidence. "Of course he is."

And it was true. Everyday she came home to an Erik who spared her more glances, who made an effort not to look too forlorn and lifeless. Yes, he still refused to speak and she was in no way enlightened of the events in Afghanistan, but she believed that he was healing—slowly, but surely.

He must be.

It was with that thought in mind that Christine bid her friend goodbye and made her way home. The wind was light today, and the sun was shining brightly—a rarity for January. She floated home as light and carefree as the weather, humming along with a skip in her step. The thought of Erik greeting her in their home once more warmed her aching heart. She yearned to hold him in her arms again, to soothe and comfort him as he always would to her.

Christine bounded up the stairs to their modest flat and fished into her bag for the keys. With a sharp twist the lock clicked and she stepped into their home, hanging up her coat and shutting the door. "Erik?" she called, stepping out of her boots and unwinding the scarf from her neck. Placing it on a counter, she called to him once more. "Erik, where are you? I'm home!"

Silence.

It was unusual that he didn't quietly appear by their bedroom door, or look up from the couch he would be sitting on, or pop his bandaged head out from the kitchen as he always would. Oddly enough he never went into his music room, something Christine had expected would bring him peace of mind. She shook back the uneasiness that overtook her, muttering to herself, "He must be sleeping." But her fingers shook as she unzipped her jacket anyway, and she could suddenly hear the sound of her heart beating in her ear—loud, insistent, deafening.

She swallowed and began to search for him. The kitchen was clean; he hadn't yet prepared their meal for the night. The counters were clear and the stove cool to the touch. She opened the fridge to find their usual milk bottles lined neatly in a row, eggs and sauces in their proper place—but there was no bowl with a plastic wrap around it, holding their dinner for the night. The microwave was also bare from any recently made food.

 _Maybe he forgot_ , she thought to herself. But even as she exited the kitchen and fought to stay calm, a voice in the back of her mind reminded her that Erik was anything but forgetful.

Her steps quickened without realisation as she headed towards their bedroom, but stopped when she passed the door to his music room. Perhaps... but one look inside showed it to be as empty and untouched as ever. She closed the door behind her and headed once more to their bedroom door. Holding her breath, Christine hoped with all her might that she would find him on the bed, sprawled comfortably with the blankets pooling at his feet as he snored on in a deserved rest. Crossing her fingers, she pushed the door open carefully, afraid to wake him should he be asleep.

Their bed was made neatly, the pillows slightly creased but untouched. There was no sign of someone recently sleeping on it, no sign of clothes that might have been dumped on the floor or a change of more comfortable linens.

There was no Erik.

The air around her suddenly felt cold and suffocating. He wasn't here. He wasn't in the kitchen or living room or bedroom. There was no food cooked, no books lying on the coffee table with their pages folded or creased. He must have left the house, but Christine had no way of contacting him. She knew that he had given his telephone back to the KGB—it was outdated, anyway—and while she had acquired a newer model, she hadn't gotten one for Erik as well.

Dread pooled in her stomach. What if he didn't come back? All her hopes about his healing, about comforting and soothing him—what if they were all in vain? Erik was already so fragile—maybe he believed he couldn't be fixed. For all she knew, he might be standing by a pier, looking down at the gushing water with that strange calmness in his eyes. Would he even think of her if he were to jump? Would he remember that his wife was slowly losing her mind as she sat on the bed of their empty flat, worried and terrified for him?

Would he even care?

Christine closed her eyes and willed herself to stay calm. If he wasn't at home, it was alright. Hadn't she encouraged him to go out again? Maybe he had stopped by their favourite food stall to get them dinner. She would stay and wait patiently for him to return. Yes, she would sit by the couch and calmly read a book, and he would surely walk into their flat carrying a bag of steaming food, hopefully greeting her with a small smile...

A muffled moan coming from the door to their bathroom cut through her thoughts. Christine sharply turned her gaze towards the bathroom door, eyes widening. _Of course_ he might be in the bathroom—how _stupid_ of her not to consider it!

Almost sobbing in relief, Christine scrambled to her feet and walked towards the door, willing herself to stay composed. As calmly as she could, she raised a shaking hand and knocked.

"Erik?" she called softly through the door. "Are you in there, love?"

There was no answer, not even a shift or clatter of supplies. Christine tried the door and was surprised at finding it unlocked. Ever since Erik had returned he had taken to locking doors whenever he was changing or using the bathroom. It had hurt her deeply to think that he was hiding himself from her— _again_ —but she brushed it off. He needed time to readjust, after all.

Knocking softly once more, she slowly inched the door open. "Erik?" she asked, sticking her head in. "Erik, I'm home—"

Her voice cut off with a gasp.

Erik sat slumped against the wall, gauze strips and cotton littered around his form. His shirt was askew as if he had hurriedly unbuttoned it, desperate to breathe properly. One look at his face showed his bandages to be loosened slightly, hanging around his head, ties flimsy and undone, but still covering his wounds. His head lolled to the side as if he were asleep.

But the most harrowing sight of all was the sight of red staining the bandages, the gauze around him, his fingers. Blood trailed thinly down his neck in a single line.

Immediately, she sprung into action and strode towards where he sat with hurried steps. "Erik?" she said sharply, desperately. She crouched by where he was sitting and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Erik—hey, wake up. Baby, I need you to wake up—Erik, please!"

Christine was on the brink of losing her mind in panic when he began to stir. His eyes blinked to reveal piercing golden orbs, hazy and questioning from sleep.

"Christine?" he questioned groggily, velvet voice deep from exhaustion.

"Erik." Her voice was strained with relief, high-pitched from her worry. "Hey, Erik. You must have fallen asleep on the floor."

It was a testament to how exhausted he must have been that he didn't immediately flinch away from her as her fingers began to idly stroke at his neck. Christine vaguely wondered how long it had been since he'd had a full night's sleep—was it since he had left, or while he had been _there?_

She was more concerned, however, with the blood that was staining his skin—blood brushed by her thumb. Christine wished she could stroke his face, but was afraid that she would hurt him. Instead she settled on cupping his jaw, boring into his still groggy golden eyes. "Are you hurt?" she asked, trying to suppress the panic in her voice. "Erik, I need you to tell me if you're hurt. You're bleeding."

And to her horror, he merely looked down at the blood staining the gauze, his skin, her thumb—and _chuckled_. "So I am," he observed in a murmur.

Christine shook her head firmly, sharply tugging at his chin so that he would meet her hard gaze. "Don't laugh." She tried to sound stern, but her words came out as a beg. "Did you reopen a wound, or something? I can help fix it up—"

"No."

She blinked at his one-worded answer. Never had Erik been so cold, so dismissive before. "Erik," she tried again, "come on. Let me clean your bandages, sweetheart. You don't have to do this alone—I'm _here_ , Erik—"

He sighed. "No, Christine," he repeated, shaking his head but still refusing to break his gaze. It was ironic, really; the one time Erik decided to look at her and _she_ was the one who was trying to blink back tears of hurt, sorrow, frustration, all while trying—and failing—to ensure he wouldn't see. "Christine," he murmured, and she swallowed with difficulty, meeting his eyes once more. His stare was firm but still laced with a familiar intensity, bright and burning within the swirling gold. It meant that he still loved her, that he wouldn't leave her.

She didn't know what she would do if he left.

"It's nothing, really—the bandage got caught on one of my old scars," he was muttering, shaking his head once more. "Nothing I can't handle."

"But you don't _have_ to handle it, Erik," she whispered, pleadingly staring at him. "You don't have to," she repeated, her words becoming more frantic as she smoothened down his shirt, toying at the collar. "Stay here, alright? I'll get some fresh bandages and clean you up, then I'll make you a nice, hot broth, just how you like it. You don't need to worry about a thing, sweetheart. Just—stay here—"

"Christine," Erik sighed, "stop."

She halted, her blue eyes big and beseeching as she looked at him. "What's wrong?" she questioned despairingly. "I just want to take care of you, Erik."

"I've been taking care of myself for ten months," he said bluntly, emotionlessly. "I don't need you to fuss over me."

"I'm not _fussing_ ," she said incredulously. "I want to take care of you, Erik, because you're hurt and I can't bear it." Her voice broke off in a sob, one that she tried to suppress. Her chest was feeling incredibly tight, her throat warm as she tried to swallow. "I _can't_ , okay? So let me do this for you—let me change your bandages—"

"That's exactly why I don't want you to," he said shortly. Wordlessly, he took hold of her hands that rested against his neck and pried them off his skin. "Go," he instructed, head jerking in the direction of the door.

Christine stared at him. "What?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Leave me, Christine," Erik ordered. His expression was hard, composed—nothing like the brief moment of the Erik she once knew, always passionate and loving and so completely vulnerable around her. His defences were up now, and Christine had no idea how to tear them down.

"Erik, I—"

"You said you didn't want to see me hurt, Christine, but I'm afraid you've missed the most important point: I've already been hurt." His words were clipped and formal, completely devoid of emotion. As if he was merely stating obvious facts. "You don't want to see me, and _I_ don't want you to see me. So go."

It was as if her voice was stuck in her throat. Christine swallowed and tried to lift her hands to his neck once more. "Please," she begged, "I know you've been hurt—that you're hurting, but _please_ don't leave me in the dark about this, Erik. I love you—I love you _so much_ —and I just want to _understand_."

He pushed her hands away. "You can't, and I don't want you to."

"Sweetheart—"

"Christine, _leave me alone!"_

It was as if his voice had been ripped from his throat, all violent and savage and seething. Christine couldn't hold back her sob and tripped over her feet as she tried to stand, startled by the sudden roughness of his order—a vivid contrast to the silent, haunted man she had been tiptoeing around for the past few weeks. Even as he sat facing her taller form, slumped against the wall and with bloodied hands, Christine felt incredibly small. She had never been a witness to the dark, angry stare he now bore, had never expected to be on the receiving end of such a scathing look.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, before rushing out of the room.

She shut the door quickly and leaned against it, trying to stifle her sobs with a hand. Erik was hurting, and Christine was hurting because of it; her heart full but hollow, her bones broken yet heavy. It was as if her heart was ripped from her chest, her ribcage savagely destroyed, her skin opened and bare for the world to see. She slid down the wall and hiccuped, tears running freely down her cheeks now as she tried to breathe, sobs wrenching from her chest in heaving gasps.

All she had wanted to do was _help_. Erik had scared her half to death when she caught sight of him, unconscious and leaning against the wall with bloodied rags around him. _Of course_ she had assumed the worst—how could she not? Why couldn't he understand that she loved him, cared for him, wanted to help him?

Maybe she was being too forward, too insistent and smothering. Maybe she wasn't being any help at all. Maybe all he wanted was to simply _forget_ everything that had happened. And she had responded by carefully tiptoeing around him, wary at one time and hopefully cheerful the next, constantly reminding him that he had been gone for ten months, that she didn't know how to act around him.

But that was the point: she _didn't_. There was no preparation for the surge of panic that had overtaken her when she had first found that fateful letter a year ago, nothing to ready her for the emotional turmoil—the grief, despair, desperation, longing, heartache—that invaded her thoughts as she went to sleep every night, hoping and praying that he was still alive, that he would come back to her. And now when he had, she was taken aback by the detached man who had returned to her arms, claiming to be her husband.

Once again, he was a stranger to her.

For the second time, she felt her heart break. She cried and sobbed against the wall, feeling completely helpless and no longer caring that he could probably hear her, not when it didn't _matter._ He was angry at her, he didn't want her with him when he needed it the most. Would he push her away from his life as well?

Christine sobbed harder, chest aching and clenching painfully as she gasped for air. Her cries were hitched and broken, physically heart-wrenching, raw as if he had punched her in the stomach. She cried for all the moments she had forced her tears back, cried for their stolen happiness and peace, cried for Erik and all he had to face, cried because he refused to open up to her, to let her be his one and only as he once had.

It reminded her of the one moment, years ago, when she had truly felt heartbreak for the first time.

And oh god, it _hurt_.

* * *

 _ **January 7, 1978**_

She hadn't heard from Raoul for days, until one day she heard a knock on her door on a Saturday and pulled it open to reveal her friend.

"I need to show you something," he said before she could even say hello. "Get dressed, make sure to keep warm. And leave a note for Meg—you'll be gone for a while."

"Raoul?" she asked, confused. "What do you mean? You can't just—"

"Christine," he interrupted quickly, giving her a pleading look. "I _promise you_ that I'll answer all your questions, but I can't do that right now." He then glanced around nervously, and Christine was absurdly struck with the thought that he was checking to see if he had been followed. "Please, Christine," he begged, "come with me."

She regarded him quietly, searching his pleading blue eyes with her own. His hair was untidy and ruffled, cheeks flushed from the cold. He had bags under his eyes, as if he hadn't been sleeping for days. His sudden request clouded her with suspicion—after all, she hadn't seen him for _years_ until New Year's Day, and then he had disappeared as suddenly as Erik had—but this was _Raoul_. Unlike Erik, she had known him for nearly a decade and a half.

So quietly, she nodded.

It was a blizzard outside. He led her down the road, twisting and turning until they reached a narrow, unfamiliar street. The pavements were unmarked with footprints, the snow untouched and laying in a heap on the road. Christine shivered from the howling wind, the hairs on the back of her neck standing. An uneasy, uncomfortable feeling settled deep in her stomach. "Raoul," she began warily, "Where are we going?"

"I'll explain everything later, Christine," Raoul hushed, glancing around once more. His hair was tousled and wet from the snow, and he licked his dry lips. If Christine didn't know better, she would say that he seemed nervous. "But I need you to be quiet, okay?"

She stopped in her tracks at that. Never before had he told her to be quiet—not seriously, anyway. This was a Raoul she had never met before—someone unfamiliar and foreign. "Raoul, you're scaring me," she said, her voice growing louder with each word. "What is this place, Raoul? Where are you taking me?"

Raoul tugged at her hand sharply, causing her to stumble in the snow. Before she could fall he deftly caught her and began leading her forwards in one fluid motion. "I can't explain right now," he said impatiently, pulling her along. She felt dread growing in her chest; she had been addressed this way before.

By Erik.

"No, Raoul," she said forcefully, digging her boots into the snow. He tugged at her insistently but she refused to budge, shaking her snow-covered curls, glaring at him hotly. "I haven't seen you for _years_ ," she hissed, "and when I do, you disappear as urgently as Erik did after I told you my worries. For god's sakes, Raoul, you just disappear then expect me to blindly follow you, when for months the man I thought I _loved_ was doing the exact same thing to me? No—you are going to tell me what's going on _right now_ , or I'm leaving!"

It angered her to see him so unfazed, still adamant and insistent even as she was close to yelling at him. Only now his expression grew grave and he stepped forwards, leaning close to her. "Christine," he said in a low voice, blue eyes regarding hers seriously, "I told you I'd tell you, but not _now_."

She opened her mouth hotly, but he cut her off before she could speak.

"I found out about your Erik, just like I told you I would," he continued. "But Christine, I can't tell you about him right now. It's not safe out in the open."

She looked at him incredulously. "Erik's not a dangerous man," she said, but realised too late that her words came out defensive. Raoul simply gave her a knowing look before turning on his heel and walking forwards once more.

Christine followed him without a second thought, mulling over her words.

 _Erik's not a dangerous man_.

But how did she know that? What _evidence_ did she have to prove she was right? If Raoul was convinced that the answers she was seeking lay down this street, that somehow, Erik had something to do with this place—how could she push away the alarm bells that screamed at her to leave, to run from him and never look back?

Raoul led her into an abandoned building, working swiftly to pick at the lock of the gate. She recognised the twist and turn of fingers and lock, remembering how he had taught this to her when they were merely children, grinning deviously, triumphant at his new 'party trick'. Glancing around, he ushered her inside before closing the gate behind them, leaving no trace that anybody had infiltrated the building.

Her fear was growing with each step into the building, heart thudding wildly in preparation to flee at any given moment. Raoul led her into a dark room and pulled out a torchlight, instructing her to stay close. She followed him hurriedly down uneven steps, trying to make out the layout of the room through the dim lighting.

With a jolt, she realised that there was a stage directly in front of them—or what was left of it. It might have been beautiful. Small, but she could make out a heavy velvet curtain and polished wood. There were hints of backdrops and ropes along the flies, barely visible through the lack of light. A brush of her fingers as she walked revealed the vague outline of a seat—or rather, hundreds of seats in a row filling countless spectators, all wide-eyed and captured by the sheer magnificence on the stage.

"It's a theatre," Raoul clarified, noticing her wide-eyed stare. His blonde hair shined eerily in the dim light. "Or rather, it _was_ a theatre—it was destroyed many years ago by Lenin."

"I never knew about it," Christine murmured, still looking around. Thoughts about their initial reason of being here fled from her mind, and she found herself suddenly curious, wanting to know more about this mysterious theatre. She had studied the old Soviet drama in her time in the conservatoire, ranging from unsuccessful productions, demolished opera houses and thriving theatres. It was surprising to find herself in a theatre she had never known about, and even more surprising to realise that it had merely been a twenty-minute walk away.

"You wouldn't have," Raoul shook his head, "it was relatively unknown; only ran for about twenty years. It's really small, too, which made it difficult to host large productions. The managers faced lots of maintenance problems from a lack of profit."

"So they shut down?" she questioned, intrigued. She vaguely wondered how Raoul had come to know about this—in all their time together, he had never expressed any interest in theatre or drama at all—but was too eager to absorb all the information she could about this forgotten auditorium to question him about it.

"Not exactly." He flicked the torch upwards, shining light upon a vacant hook on the ceiling. "See that?" he gestured, and Christine nodded, squinting to get a better look. Raoul answered her before she could ask. "A chandelier used to hang there. Now, it's down here." He let the light trail downwards, tracing the torn wallpapers and uneven stairs before finally resting on an old, shattered chandelier in the middle of a row. It had thoroughly destroyed a few seats, and when Christine looked closely, she saw hints of blackened, torn material—doubtless from the fire that lit the chandelier's candles.

"This was caused by poor maintenance?" she asked quietly, frowning. It was an incredibly foolish thing for the managers to overlook.

"Officially, yes." Raoul started walking forwards once more, reaching the bottom of the stage and waiting for her to catch up. "But according to others, a ghost caused this."

"A ghost?" she repeated, walking down the last of the steps.

"Yes, apparently in a fit of jealous rage," he nodded. "He was in love with one of the chorus members, and tried to kidnap her. He was hideous; barely human. He haunted the theatre and attacked anyone who tried to go against him. When the girl ran away with a handsome young boy, he was furious, leading to this." He gestured in the direction of the seats. "It was good publicity, but the theatre shut down after his stint with the chandelier. It killed five people."

Christine felt a chill rack through her bones at the gothic story. She glanced towards the chandelier, bits of glass cutting into the seats. A lone candle hung from a holder, waxy and ancient. It must have been more than eighty years old. "And you believe this?" she asked, still staring at it.

"No," Raoul said shortly. His curt answer startled her out of her thoughts and she glanced at him quickly. "As I said, it was good publicity."

Without another word he walked towards a door towards the side of the theatre and beckoned for her to follow. Opening it didn't reveal an exit—rather, it led to a staircase leading downwards, seeming to disappear into the darkness. The stone was weathered from the freezing air, untouched by sunlight to lend its warmth. She felt a chill as she warily followed, the air below remarkably colder and still.

She inched closer to her childhood friend, clutching at his sleeve. "Raoul, I don't like this," she muttered, shaking her head. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest, beating with growing fear. "I want to leave."

"Christine, I know it's unsettling, but _please_ trust me on this." Raoul took her hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly. He looked into her eyes earnestly. "I've been here many times before. There's no ghost, no danger. It's all a legend—something made up by the managers to sell tickets."

"But _why_ are we here?" she asked desperately, unwilling to venture down into the darkness. "I don't understand anything, Raoul—I don't understand how this will tell me _anything_ about Erik—"

"It will," he said firmly. "Come on, you're safe with me. I won't let anything harm you, I promise."

She looked at him anxiously, searching his expression for any hint of danger or fear. After a moment's hesitation, Christine took his outstretched hand and stepped into the darkness with him. She glanced longingly at the abandoned theatre before the door slid closed behind her.

Raoul led her down narrow stairs that seemed to lead nowhere. On and on they went, spiralling downwards, the walls dank and empty. Once or twice she heard the faint scutter of what sounded like rats, their tiny feet echoing eerily along the stairs, and she tightened her grip around Raoul's hand. It stank of cellars, the air confined and stuffy. Christine covered her nose with her sleeve, breathing in her own scent.

At last, they reached a lake—and to her surprise, a small gondola was tied by the edge, waiting patiently to be used. She glanced around in wonder; the water was murky but shining, softly slushing in the background. It was surprisingly peaceful scene despite the ghostly theatre. Raoul silently led her into the little boat and instructed her to remain seated before he started rowing, steering them in a direction that brought them further away from the exit. He navigated with practiced ease, and Christine exhaled in relief.

It meant that he knew the way out again.

The journey was silent. Christine first occupied herself by looking forwards in nervous anticipation, but soon grew bored when every turn revealed another path that looked similar to the last; the same stone walls, the same dank smell, the same spell of darkness. There were torch holders along the walls, and Christine imagined that the lake might have been beautiful and well-travelled, once. She was struck with the thought that it would be the perfect dwelling for a siren; eerie but enchanting, mythical and tempting.

They reached the shore before long, and then Raoul was helping her out of the gondola before securing the boat to the dock with firm knots. Once he ensured the boat wouldn't drift away, he took her hand once more and led her down another path—this one slightly cleaner than the others, a door visible at the end of the corridor.

Her grip tightened around his wrist. "Raoul," she began warningly, staring at the door with a guarded fear.

"Almost there, Christine," Raoul's voice came reassuringly, but Christine only felt an increasing uneasiness in her bones.

They walked into the room silently, and he closed the door behind her before tracing the walls with the light from his electric torch, finally landing on a switch towards the side. Letting out a small sound of triumph, Raoul bounded in the direction of the switch and flicked it.

Christine blinked, unprepared by the sudden light that filled the room. She held a hand over her face, shielding her overly-sensitive eyes as they slowly adjusted to the brightness once more. A glance upwards showed her electric lights fixed into the stone of the ceiling. It was a splash of modernity in an ancient theatre, unsettlingly out of place. She looked around.

The room was empty, completely devoid of anything apart from a single wooden desk and chair, sitting quietly in the middle. There was nothing remotely special about it—it was simply a desk and chair, practical and impersonal and completely common. There was no wallpaper, no paintings hung on the wall—just the smell of freshly coated wood, strong and suffocating.

Nothing to tie itself to a person, an individual, a human being.

"Raoul," she began, turning to slowly face him, "what is this?"

He sighed, walking towards the table and unwrapping the scarf from his neck. "This—" He hesitated, giving Christine a pained look before continuing. "This is Erik's office."

She blinked at him. "You're joking," she said flatly.

He shook his head. "I'm not, Christine. I'll explain everything if you want me to, but I want you to know right now that everything I'm telling you—everything I'm _about_ to tell you—is the truth. And whatever it is, you can't tell _anyone_ what I'm about to tell you. Trust me on this."

Christine stared at him warily, uncertain how to handle the situation. On one hand, she wanted answers and Raoul seemed more than eager to give them to her. But on another, he had brought her to an abandoned theatre nobody knew about and refused to answer her questions until they were tucked deep underground, in a room hidden by complex passageways only accessible by a gondola.

But her curiosity got the best of her, and she sighed and nodded. "Tell me first and I'll see if I believe you or not."

He patted the empty chair. When she made no move to occupy it, he simply leaned against the desk. "Okay," he started, "I'm quite sure you were confused as to why I didn't leave my parents like I said I would."

She frowned. "Raoul, I don't want to hear about your life story right now. You're supposed to tell me about Erik."

"I am," he promised, "but it'll all make sense if you know the whole story."

She stared at him for a moment, scrutinising him warily. When he didn't break his gaze, she nodded at him to continue.

"So, I'm sure you were confused—"

"Yes, a little. Get on with it."

Raoul took a deep breath. "Christine," he began, "what do you know about our government?"

She frowned. "That they run our country," she said, shrugging. "They run our businesses and provide our income. The newspapers don't really say much."

"Yes, the newspapers don't say much at all," he muttered, almost bitterly. She glanced curiously at him. "The newspapers don't tell you that our country is run by corrupt, greedy noblemen who preach socialism without following it. Elites who don't give a damn about our low living standards."

"Raoul," she frowned, "you've told me all of this before, I know, but it's still dangerous to speak freely like this. If anyone was to hear—"

"But who's going to hear us, Christine?" he interrupted, gesturing around. "This theatre has been abandoned for sixty odd years or so. There's a reason why Erik chose this location to hide his secrets."

"Until you convince me otherwise, I can't believe that this is Erik's workspace, Raoul," Christine said firmly.

"I know," he said quietly, "and I wish I didn't have to make you believe it. But you need to know the truth, Christine. Erik is a member of the KGB."

Her breath stilled in her lungs. It felt like the blood had left her body, like a weighing stone dropped into her stomach.

 _No_ , she shook her head, _no, no, no, it's not possible..._

"What?" she whispered, horrified. "What—how do you know this?"

Raoul didn't break his gaze, staring steadily at her. "I hate the government, Christine," he said unwaveringly. She watched him helplessly, trying to keep up with his words even as her thoughts were filled with Erik, a part of the secret police, repressing and censoring others...

"Positions are given to family members and friends, those who are greedy for power and want to keep it. I'm the son of one of those men, and I hate it." Raoul's gaze hardened. "I've always hated it, you know that. But as I grew older, I realised that more people would start to take my words seriously. It was dangerous for me, for my family and friends."

He looked down at his feet, sighing. "For a long time I felt helpless, unable to speak against my family but unwilling to support them, either. So instead of protesting, I listened. In a way, I was a spy within the family. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with the information I discovered from my father's records—"

Christine looked at him in horror. "You've been looking into top secret records?" she whispered disbelievingly.

"I have for a few years now," he nodded. "But then I went to university and met others, Christine, who feel the same way I do. They introduced me to a group of dissidents, those who were part of the _samizdat_ —a group of people who want to know the _truth_ about our country, without all the censorship going on. Suddenly, all the information I gathered over the years proved to be useful. After I graduated, I worked as an undercover journalist for a while—"

"Oh my god," Christine covered her mouth. "Raoul, that's illegal," she whispered urgently. "If they find out—"

"But they haven't yet," he pressed on, shaking his head. "We've been very careful, Christine— _I've_ been very careful."

"So what do you do?" she asked faintly. "Conspire against the government behind their backs? Sneak up on your father and read up on the faults of our government? Raoul, you can't just plot to _overthrow the government_."

He let out an indignant huff. "I'm not plotting to overthrow the government," he rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid, Christine. But there are many out there who despised Stalin, Khrushchev—now Brezhnev. If we spread the word, if we let them _know_ about what goes on behind the scenes—"

"You'll get arrested and killed!"

Raoul shook his head assertively. "I know the stakes, Christine," he protested, "I know the consequences and I'm not stupid enough to expose myself. I'm part of the _samizdat_ , Christine. My family name protects me, so I'm not in danger. We write and hand out confidential information to the public—or rather, those who actively protest against how our country is run. And I _assure_ you, Christine, that once you find out about how corrupt they are you'll protest too."

"I am _not_ getting involved in this!" Christine hissed, eyes flashing in anger. "I didn't come here to be recruited by your gang of thieves, Raoul. Your cause is noble but _nobody_ will support this! The government would arrest us all!"

He pondered her words for a while, before speaking in a chilling voice. "They are the few," he said quietly, "we are the many. And when the many stop fearing the few..."

He trailed off, looking at her intently. Christine ran her fingers through her hair and turned away, shaking her head.

"I don't want any part of this, Raoul," she said tiredly, shutting her eyes. "I just want to know what secrets Erik hides."

"Okay," Raoul's voice came from behind her, quiet and resolute. She felt a heady surge of anticipation and anxiety, so close to discovering about Erik's life yet unwilling to know. Would it not be simpler if she remained blind? They would be happy, then—she would just have to ignore the fact that once in a while, her Erik would disappear to perform duties for the government, duties she didn't know of or understand...

"Okay," Raoul said once more, and Christine turned back to face him, determined. _No_ , she would _not_ run away from this. Here and now she would find out what Erik was hiding from her, just as slyly as he had weaved himself into her life.

Idly, she wondered if this meant that he never loved her at all.

And just as quickly, she pushed the thought away. She had no doubt that Erik loved her—she felt his devotion as fiercely as he felt hers. Their very _souls_ were joined, their bodies made for each other, their voices shaped to create seamless harmonies when they spoke.

Nobody could deceive that well.

"During these years," Raoul continued, "I delved deeper into my father's records." He paused, a pained look crossing his features—a look that made Christine want to cover her ears. She swallowed, nodding for him to continue. "There were a few confidential files I found, with some interesting records about a masked assassin: a man who called himself the Phantom. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

She nodded slowly, frowning as she tried to remember. "He's a legend," she murmured, "someone created to instil fear in others. He wears a mask that covers his entire face because beneath it is the face of the devil. If anyone went against the government, the Phantom would sneak into their houses in the middle of the night and slit their throats while they slept."

Raoul pursed his lips. "That's one hell of a legend," he muttered.

Christine met his eyes, confused. "But it's a _legend_ ," she insisted, "made up to scare children, to make sure they followed the law—"

"To ensure they wouldn't develop minds of their own," he finished. He stared at her hardly, as if daring her to contradict the statement. "To ensure they didn't turn out like _me_."

She let out a ragged breath. "Yes," she admitted softly, reluctantly. She looked up, meeting his eyes. "What does this have to do with Erik?"

Raoul let out a pained moan, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry, Christine," he said regretfully, "I'm so, _so_ sorry."

"What is it?" she asked, irritation masking her wildly beating heart.

"The Phantom is no legend." He grimaced, then continued, "He's a powerful and valuable asset to the secret police. Every threat against the government is silenced skilfully by his hands. I overheard him speaking to my father one night, when the entire household was asleep." He looked up to meet her eyes. "His name is Erik."

A choked sound escaped Christine's lips and she stumbled backwards, covering her mouth with her hand. She stared at Raoul, horrified. "What's his last name?" she asked in a whisper, blue eyes begging and pleading.

"Christine—"

"His _last name_ , Raoul."

He paused, then said quietly, "I don't know."

A surge of hope flooded her chest, and she lowered her hands from her lips. "Then you can't prove that it's him," she insisted breathlessly, eyes wide and wild. "You said he wears a mask, Raoul, so you can't have seen his face—"

"I didn't."

"Then it can't be him!" she said, triumphant, even as Raoul watched her sadly. "How many countless others are called 'Erik', Raoul? You can't just assume that this Phantom is _my_ Erik because he lied to me—it doesn't make it any less wrong, but thinking that he's a spy-turned-assassin working for the KGB? Raoul, that's _insane_ —"

There was the sound of scraping, and then a drawer opening. Christine stopped, gasping to catch her breath and watched Raoul retrieve a few folders from the drawers, placing them on the table silently.

"What's this?" she asked shakily, staring guardedly at a folder in front of her. It was slightly bent at the creases, a sign that it had been recently opened.

"Open it," said Raoul without explanation.

Christine strode over to the table and flipped open the first folder, eagerly scanning through for some scrap of information, _anything_ to prove Raoul wrong. The page showed a picture of a plain, unfamiliar man, someone she had never seen before in her life. Across the sheet of paper were his details: his name, date of birth, occupation.

At the corner of the page was a simple tick, marked in red ink. There was nothing that stirred her memory, no details she recognised.

"Look through the rest," Raoul said quietly behind her.

Flipping the page, Christine came across another sheet bearing a picture of another man and his details. She scanned through before flipping once more, revealing another man, and another. They all bore ticks at the corners of the paper, the red a stark contrast against the simple black and white of the document.

She flipped through impatiently, high off adrenaline and a fierce desire to prove her childhood friend wrong, but stopped her movements halfway through the booklet.

On a sheet of paper next to a balding old man with a handlebar moustache were hastily written words.

 _St Petersburg, Monday 8pm_ , it read. The handwriting was uniquely slanted, sharp and precise.

It was Erik's.

"No," Christine breathed, horrified. It couldn't be—but Erik's handwriting had always been set apart from everyone else's. She didn't want to believe—oh _god_ she didn't want to believe—but all the evidence was pointing towards him. His abrupt disappearance, the fact that he had a telephone, his excess of money, his constant secrecy...

She dropped the folder from her shaking hands and backed away from the desk, moaning. "No, no, no—"

"Christine," Raoul said hurriedly, approaching her with outstretched hands.

"No, no, no—"

"Christine, listen to me—"

 _"No, no, no_ —"

" _Christine!"_

She snapped her gaze towards where Raoul stood, easily a small distance away from her. His hands were outstretched and raised as if in surrender. It reminded her of the police, of the danger of being arrested.

She wanted to vomit.

"Listen to me," Raoul repeated, more softly this time. "He's an asset to the government, yes, but they control him just like they control everyone else." He stared at her seriously. "You have to understand this, Christine. Some men do not stay by choice, but because the KGB would harm them or those around them if they did. Your Erik might be one of these men."

"It might not be him," she insisted weakly, shaking her head. "You might be wrong, Raoul, it might all just be coincidence—"

"It might," he conceded, nodding. "But when I overheard the Phantom talking to my father, I caught sight of his eyes. They were a burning gold, Christine—piercing and fierce. I'll never forget them for as long as I live."

She had covered her mouth with her hand by now, tears rolling down her cheeks. Raoul had never met Erik before; she had never even showed him a picture. He could have easily been describing another man—but then again, what were the chances?

"Oh my god," she breathed, a sob wrenching itself from her throat. "Oh my god, it's him, it's Erik." Her gaze landed on the abandoned file on the table, looking at it fearfully.

Raoul followed her gaze and sighed when it landed on the folder. "His victims," Raoul said quietly. "A tick for every disposed target."

Her breath hitched in her throat, and she shut her eyes tightly. "You're lying," she whispered, "you must be lying. You _have_ to be."

"I wish I was, Christine." She opened her eyes to meet his solemn blue ones, regretfully staring back into hers. He nudged her hand with his and she looked down to see him handing her a coloured photograph of a man. He was clad in all black, and wore a full-faced mask. Unlike the rest of the outfit it was a stark white, vivid against the black.

"Try to find the mask, Christine," Raoul urged quietly. "I wish you didn't have to invade his privacy, but there are too many coincidences that you can't ignore. If you don't find this mask, then I'll be happy to be proven wrong. But if you do..."

She simply stared at the photograph in front of her. The man was crisp and clean, standing with a regal posture so alike to Erik's own. He bore the same height, same weight, same hair—same everything. A glance closer showed him to have startling golden eyes.

With a cry of defeat, Christine collapsed into the arms of her waiting friend, feeling her heart truly break for the first time in her life.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, Christine cries a _lot_ in this chapter, but so would you if you were put into her shoes.

So, what do you think? Did you fangirl as much as I did when Christine called Erik every single term of endearment ever? I have a soft spot for calling the one you love 'baby', I think it's so sweet.

Leave a review and let me know what you think!


	6. Man So Small

**A/N:** Once again, thank you for the positive responses! To RoseDaae, Miss Phan and Jessica—thank you for your reviews. I wish you would get accounts so I could respond to you personally! And a special nod to Scarlet Stalking Abroad, who has never failed to leave a review every chapter. Your support is greatly appreciated!

I must also say that some parts of this was heavily influenced by the fic, **Fraternité** by Gondolier. It's another EC fic, and if you haven't read it, do it now. It's my god of all POTO fanfics. Words cannot tell you how much I love that fic.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album _Sigh No More_. The song featured in this chapter is called  After The Storm, after its title.

* * *

 _And I won't die alone and be left there._

 _Well I guess I'll just go home,_

 _Oh God knows where._

 _Because death is just so full and man so small._

 _Well I'm scared of what's behind and what's before._

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

Christine was quiet the next day.

Erik held no grudges against her; it was understandable, if he thought about it. He understood that it would have been difficult to live without a husband for almost a year, then have him thrown back in an almost unrecognisable fashion. Christine couldn't possibly know how to cope with him— _he_ didn't have the faintest idea how to handle himself either. He had returned to her, disfigured and traumatised, and she had been expected to take care of him, ensure that he functioned properly.

Erik wished he could do more to ease her burden. He wished she wasn't _presented_ with a burden in the first place, but there was little he could do to fend away memories he had no wish to hold onto. He wanted their relationship to return to what it was before.

Yet here they were, eating their breakfasts silently, avoiding each other's eyes.

He wished he hadn't yelled at her last night, but he hadn't had much control over his own emotions then. All he remembered was pain and happiness, a manic man and a beautiful woman, a long, blinding desperation to nestle himself into her arms once more. A knife nicking his neck where she had planted a thousand kisses.

Christine hadn't deserved his harsh words. Erik had no desire to push her away, but he saw no other alternative. It was either he push her away, or drown her in his despair.

He couldn't taint her like that, so he chose the former.

He'd heard her crying—of course he had. He had crawled across their small bathroom, leaning against the very door she was sobbing against and pressing his forehead against the hard wood. The scars on his face had healed, but for once Erik wished they were open and gushing so that he could suffer as she had. He had endured months of having a knife carve into his skin like he was a simple tree bark, but he would endure another lifetime if it meant she would never cry again.

Once he had secured his bandages and ensured his scars were covered, he had pushed open the door only to find a strange pressure pushing against it. Carefully and concisely he had inched the door open and manoeuvred out of the bathroom—only to find his beloved wife fast asleep against the door, slumped in an unsightly fashion, her curls tangled and messy against her face and dried tear tracks down her cheeks.

If it was possible for him to hate himself any more, he would have. How could he not? The woman he loved most, _his_ _Christine_ , had been crying because of him—sobbing and suffering because _he_ had pushed her away. She had always wanted the best for him; always wanted him to feel safe, to embrace her love like she did his.

 _Kind_ , he thought to himself. His Christine, always so kind.

Instead he had bent to her level and with a sigh, brushed her hair away from her face. It was clear that Christine had been exhausted; large, drooping eye bags were visible on her skin, and her lips were gently parted, soft snores emerging from her throat. With a pang he realised just how weary she was, taking care of him while having to rehearse everyday. As gently as he could, he lifted her into his arms and tucked her into their bed, pulling the covers up to cover her chest. She had let out a few sniffles as she buried her face into the pillow— _his_ pillow, he realised.

"I'm sorry," he had said hollowly into the silent room, knowing his words could never undo the hurt he had inflicted upon her.

Erik had risen the next morning with a determination to make amends. He wasn't in a better place, but he had pushed his own upsetting experiences aside to care for his wife. He had sworn at their wedding that he would care for her no matter what, that he would do his best to make her happy—or die trying. With this thought in mind he crossed the hall to their kitchen and cooked a breakfast for two, knowing that she never took kindly to him skipping his meals even before he had left for Afghanistan. And for some insane reason, Christine was happy when she saw him fed and preoccupied—so he would do his best to function normally.

For her.

He decided to forgo his initial practice of silence, acting as the first to bid her a, "Good morning," when she entered the room. Christine had been surprised, but replied with a sleepy, "Morning," and reached for some water. He swiftly manoeuvred before she could, pouring a glass for her.

"I thought I'd join you for breakfast," he said. He held out the glass as a peace offering.

She blinked, mind still clouded from sleep, and took the glass from him. "Good—you need to eat." He realised with a pang that she didn't offer him a smile like she always would, instead turning and slumping down onto the kitchen chair. "This looks good, Erik," she said as she always did. "Thanks."

"It's not like I have anything better to do," he shrugged, taking his seat opposite her.

She chose not to reply, instead cutting up her toast and eggs.

The breakfast passed by in an awkward silence, neither one knowing what to say. Erik tried to think of topics to converse, but found himself coming up blank. He could inquire about her rehearsals—but that would then lead to Christine describing their progress over the months while he had been gone, something he refused to acknowledge. So he ate quietly, carefully avoiding his bandages as he worked his fork into his mouth.

"Are you alright?" Christine asked suddenly, and Erik almost choked on his eggs.

He swallowed carefully and gave her a wary look. "Yes," he said slowly.

"I mean—you were bleeding yesterday," she clarified. Her voice was surprisingly steady, he noted, despite having a slight rough quality that must only have been due to the tears she had shed. He grimaced at the memory of finding her slumped against the door.

"It was a small cut," he said dismissively, "easily taken care of. I'm fine."

"If you say so," she shrugged, looking back down onto her plate as she gathered another mouthful. He watched her silently, noting her tense shoulders and slightly aggressive way of stabbing at her food. He sighed to himself.

"It should be perfectly healed by now," he elaborated, looking at her intently. "I cut myself while applying the gauze. Nothing to worry about, I assure you."

She merely pursed her lips and nodded before focusing on her meal.

The rest of the day passed by in silence. Christine had taken to working six days a week since the new production would be running soon, leaving her Sundays completely free to spend with him. But while she had coddled and read to him for the last two Sundays, today's was spent in silence, with Christine curled up on his favourite armchair, a fat book resting on her lap.

Erik was at a loss of what to do. Before, their quiet weekends would be spent in the music room, where she would be curled up in a similar position, listening to him weaving melodies out of his preferred instrument. But he was still adamantly refusing to step foot into the room again, remembering the pristine state of his instruments and shaking his head firmly.

They were too different; too unfamiliar compared to the conditions he had been forced to live in. He couldn't look at them.

There were many other things to do, of course; he could tinker, or sing to himself, or write out the melodies in his mind. But those songs were despairing and dark, ones he had composed in Afghanistan to distract himself from horrors at hand. And he had no wish to revisit those memories, so he firmly pushed all thoughts of music out of his mind.

Perhaps he could read—but then again, Erik had no wish to read of someone else's life. He was too bitter, too demented to read of their happiness or despair. His historical novels held little interest to him, and others—dark, Russian folktales—less so.

So he found himself wandering the flat once more, walking from room to room and straightening up objects here and there. He was growing increasingly restless with Christine around, feeling a strange pressure to avoid irritating her. Her presence cut through him like a knife, and he was—in some ways—stung as well as annoyed at her ignorance of him.

When at last two hours had passed with him aimlessly dawdling around, Christine shut the book with a sigh. "Erik," she said tiredly, "what are you doing?"

He emerged from the hallway, giving her an uncertain shrug. "Nothing," he muttered. "Wandering."

"Why don't you read?" she offered, to which he immediately shook his head. "I can read to you, if you like?"

"Don't trouble yourself, Christine," he sighed, crossing the room to sit on the sofa. He gestured towards her book. "Keep reading. I'll find something to do."

"Is this what you do everyday?" she questioned quietly, meeting his gaze. Her blue eyes were deep and piercing. "Do you just walk around until I get home?"

"I make your meals," he shrugged, but it sounded weak even to his own ears.

Christine pushed the book aside and stood wearily, letting out a soft mewl as she stretched her stiff bones. Wordlessly, she came to sit beside him on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her thighs. "I don't like the idea of you spending your days like this," she admitted softly.

He shifted slightly to put some distance in between them, and her shoulders drooped slightly.

"Do you want to go out?" she asked, offering him a tentative smile.

"No," he said immediately. She frowned.

"Why not?"

Erik looked at her incredulously, then gestured towards his bandages.

"Take them off," she said bluntly.

He recoiled from her as if she had slapped him. "No," he said once more.

"Why not?" she pressed. "Soldiers are coming home everyday with worser injuries—nobody would look twice at you. And you deserve a nice day out like we used to spend together, remember? We could go to the park; it's lovely out today, even with the snow—"

"Christine." He was shaking his head, shutting his eyes tightly. "Christine, stop."

She stopped speaking and pursed her lips, sighing. "Okay, so you don't want me to talk about your injury."

He blinked at her. "What?" he asked stupidly.

Christine merely gave him a small, sad smile and shifted so that she was closer to him. "Erik," she began, "I need you to tell me what is and isn't okay with you. I don't know what you went through while you were there—"

He cleared his throat and looked away.

"—and judging from your reaction, you don't want me to mention that either. Alright, that's fine, I can do that. But Erik," she reached out and placed a hand on his, "I can't read your mind. I don't want to feel like I'm walking on eggshells around you."

"You don't have to," he frowned.

"I feel like I am." Her words were quiet, a soft declaration. It felt like she had pulled a silent trigger on him; swift and powerful, instantly hitting its mark. He struggled to control his breathing, suddenly feeling as if all the air had left his lungs.

She felt like he was a stranger to her. He could see that now.

"I need to know what you're comfortable with," she was saying, "and what you're not. I know you don't want to talk about—what happened. And I'm alright with that, even if I want you to tell me—"

"Why would you want to know?" he asked abruptly, cutting her off.

She hesitated. "I told you yesterday," she said softly, giving him a small, hopeful smile. "I want to understand."

"You can't," he shook his head.

She looked as if she was about to reply, but closed her mouth at the last minute. "Okay," she sighed, "if you think so."

"I know so."

"Alright, Erik. So, no talking about— _that_. No talking about your injuries, or your face. From what I've seen, you don't want to talk about your music, either—"

Erik jumped away from the sofa where they both sat, shaking his head. "Stop—Christine, stop talking," he commanded, though it sounded like a beg to his own ears. "Why are you setting boundaries? Nothing has changed—"

"Erik, communication goes both ways," she pleaded, rising on her knees on the couch. "If you don't want me to mention something, you've got to _tell_ me—"

"There's nothing I have to tell you," he said shortly. A long silence stretched in between them, of Christine on her knees on the sofa and Erik standing further away, body posed in a defensive stance. Finally, he spoke. "We can go about as normal. Nothing has changed," he repeated.

"Oh Erik," Christine sighed, sitting back down on her calves, "everything has changed."

He forcefully shook his head. The last thing he heard before he left the room was her soft, defeated sigh.

* * *

 _ **January 9, 1978**_

The man collapsed on his chair, dead eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His skin was still warm, heartbeat faintly beating its final notes. And then he became simply a body—lifeless, dead, perished.

The masked man arranged his limbs on the chair carefully. The armchair was facing away from the door, towards the fireplace. If one were to walk in, they would not be aware that the man was dead. The man had no immediate family, so the maids would not realise that their master did not leave his room until much, much later.

It was just as he wanted it.

Satisfied, the Phantom straightened and observed his work. His eyes traced the form of the man from behind his mask. There were no marks upon his body; no signs of bleeding or gunshot wounds. The only place that was bruised was the throat his gloved hand had clasped itself around, and that was barely visible through the thick collar. With a decisive nod the masked man smoothened down his attire and ensured his weapons were in place, before walking towards the balcony of the mansion, shutting the doors behind him.

He swung over the balcony and worked his way downwards. In the silent night, nobody saw the black figure expertly exiting the mansion, his black ensemble blending in with the starless dark. The elite neighbourhood slumbered on, unaware of the kill that had taken place mere moments ago.

He landed upon the ground, boots crunching the snow softly. He walked with the shadows, blending into the night. When he was far enough, he crossed into a dark alley, glancing around once to ensure he wasn't being followed.

A short while later a simple man emerged, face uncovered and buried underneath a thick cloak. He made his way to the main street, passing by men and women similarly clothed, shivering as they hurried to make their way home. He picked up his pace as they did, eager to return to the warmth of his home.

At last he crossed into a weary-looking building. The paint was wearing thin, cement covered with white snow. He advanced up flights of stairs until, finally, he reached a simple door at the end of the hall. Sharp, precise movements, and then the door was unlocked, and he disappeared inside without another glance.

Erik let out a breath as he shut the door behind him. He shook his snow-covered hair and exhaled once more, basking in the warmth of his home. An arm reached out for the light switch and with a simple flick, the flat was lit up.

It was decisively more lavish than the others in the building. A lush Persian carpet decorated the floor of the living room, the sofas and armchairs of the finest leather, rich in colours of black and grey. The counters were polished, showing off its fine wood-make. A grand piano stood towards the side, shining black against the cream-coloured walls.

Erik shrugged out of his coat and hung it up on the rack. His all-black ensemble was immediately revealed, and he dug into the coat once more to fish for his mask, holding it loosely from a hand. He strolled casually across the room, the step of his boots soundless against the rich wood.

Once inside the room he put the mask on a counter before making quick work of his tactical belt, loosening the straps of his weapons and tossing them carelessly onto the bed. He pulled the leather holster off his waist and added it to the growing pile of weapons on his mattress. His dagger joined the heap, along with a swiss army knife, two other pistols and a small sleeper agent. He loosened his telephone from the straps as well, and it landed in the middle of the mess on his bed.

It was mere coincidence that as soon as it landed on the bed, his telephone rang. _Odd_ , he frowned. Usually, the KGB would not bother to contact him after a mission.

He reached for the device easily, never feeling constricted from the black material clinging to his skin. Pushing his thumb against the answer dial, he pressed the telephone to his ear. "Yes?" he answered—clipped, formal, to the point.

All he heard on the other side of the line was the grainy rasp of a ragged gasp, followed by unsteady breathing. He frowned. "What is it?" he snapped into the speaker. The KGB often ordered newer recruits to deliver his assignments, and Erik never had the patience for them. They stuttered too much, called him "sir" and stumbled over a simple task. It was infuriating.

There was a pause, and then a tentative, "Erik?"

His eyes widened. On instinct, he quickly punched the 'end' button on the telephone, flinging it back onto his weapon-clad bed. He knew that voice; he would recognise it anywhere.

Christine.

How did she obtain his number? He had been so careful—disregarding his slip-up at her home when he had last seen her, of course. The only people who had his number were the KGB—

Unless they had them with her.

Without missing a beat, Erik immediately began loading his weapons back onto his belt with a fiery resolve. He was seething with anger. _How dare_ they threaten his Christine? She had sounded timid, afraid on the other end of the line—how could they _do_ that to her, make her tremble with fear? She was innocent, she was blameless—if anyone was to blame it was him, even if he couldn't come up with a sole reason as to why the KGB would want to threaten him.

But first, he would have to check her home. With quick movements he was once again clad in his full attire, mask firmly gripped in his hand as he strode towards the door, slipping his coat on to conceal his suit. He tucked the mask into a secure pocket of the coat, ensuring it was safe.

He didn't look back as he ventured out into the night once more, vengeful and angry and seeing red.

* * *

Christine stared at the phone on the coffee table.

Meg was out that night with Dimitri—the male lead dancer—to her immense relief. While she adored her friend, she knew that Meg could not get involved with this. So when she had left and Raoul had arrived, Christine had immediately borrowed her friend's phone to test out the number he had acquired from his father mere moments ago.

"It's him," she confirmed hollowly. Raoul, who was sitting next to her, pulled her against him sympathetically. She felt more than heard his sigh, burrowing her face into his chest. Surprisingly, the tears did not come.

"I'm sorry, Christine," she heard him say above her, and felt his chin resting against her crown. It was comforting. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

She contemplated for a moment. She knew that the logical thing to do was to abandon Erik and cut off all ties with him. Her heart twisted in her chest to think of it. But if there was the slightest possibility that what Raoul had said before was _right_ , that Erik was unwilling and could not leave the KGB...

She had to know.

"I'm going to talk to him," she said decisively. "I want to hear his side of the story—everything he has to say."

"Christine," Raoul said quickly, pulling back to look at her. His blue eyes bored into hers seriously. "That's dangerous. He'sthe _Phantom_. A masked assassin; a killer. He's the secret police's most valuable asset. You need to leave him."

"No," she said stubbornly, shaking her head. "I'll hear what he has to say."

"It's _dangerous_ , Christine—"

"Raoul, I'm hearing what he has to say and that's final."

Knowing when he had lost an argument, Raoul sighed and leaned back against the sofa. "Okay," he conceded wearily. He brushed sandy hair away from his eyes before sitting up and reaching across the table for a pen and paper. "But I need to know that you'll be safe, Christine," he told her, gaze fixed on the numbers he was scribbling on the sheet. Tearing it from the pad, he held the paper out to her.

Written in a messy scrawl was a phone number. "I don't have a phone, Raoul," she frowned.

"Use mine for now," he offered, "I've got others at home. You can give it back when this is all over."

"Over," she repeated, nodding slowly as she took the piece of paper. She stared at the numbers blankly.

Over.

It would either end with her and Erik together once more, or with her leaving Erik once and for all. Each possibility was a daunting one.

Over.

"Thank you," she said quietly, still staring at the numbers. Raoul nodded once, then glanced at his watch.

"I have to go," he said apologetically, rising from his seat, "my family's waiting for me."

Christine stood with him, clearing her throat and smoothening down her skirt. "Of course," she said as graciously as she could, willing her voice not to break. "Thank you for coming, Raoul."

"Of course, Christine," he smiled.

She couldn't bring herself to return the gesture, instead giving him what she thought was a painful grimace.

"Keep me updated," he ordered as they walked to the door. "This is nothing to trifle with, Christine. I need to know that you're making the right decision. If your Erik is a good man—"

"He is," she said firmly. "And if he's not, then—" She cut herself off with a helpless laugh, throwing her hands in the air. If he wasn't, she wouldn't know what to do with herself.

Raoul watched her quietly, and nodded once more. He opened his arms to her and she gratefully fell into his embrace, burying her face into the soft furs of his coat. He was warm, comforting against her.

Safe.

Raoul always knew when she needed to be comforted. He was her anchor; he always had been. And she was so, _so_ grateful for his presence in possibly the most difficult time of her life.

But all too soon he gently pried her hands off. "They really are waiting," he said regretfully.

She nodded. "Of course," she said, even as her voice hitched a few octaves higher. Suddenly, she wished he could stay; she didn't want to be alone. Swallowing, she got out, "I'll, uh—I'll call you when I speak to him again."

"I'll be around," he promised. "If you need me, just let me know. I can take you out for the day."

She smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Raoul," she said earnestly, opening the door for him.

"Goodnight, Christine," he said, catching her hand and squeezing it in his before stepping into the hallway and walking towards the exit.

She leaned against the door, watching him leave. Her bones suddenly felt very tired, exhausted from the shocks that had come to her as each day passed. Had it only been two days since Raoul had brought her underneath the theatre and challenged all her beliefs? It felt like a lifetime had passed.

She sighed, then moved to shut the door. But before she could, a gloved hand reached out and caught it, stopping her movements abruptly.

"Who was that?" a deep, silky voice asked.

Christine gasped; she would know that voice anywhere.

"Erik?" she questioned breathlessly.

As if in answer, her lover made himself known to her, emerging to stand in front of her. Her breath caught at the sight of him. He looked the same as ever: clean-shaven as always, hair slicked back from the snow, lips still thin and chapped. He wore a large, oversized coat that made his frame seem bulky instead of the usual skinniness she had come to associate him with.

Suddenly, her heart started to thud rapidly against her chest.

"Who was that?" he repeated. His voice was not his own—it was twisted, menacing, coming out in a growl.

Refusing to let him order her about, she shot back, "Where have you been?"

"Away," he said shortly. "I'm sorry for leaving like that, but it was urgent." His eyes flickered to the inside of her flat, an obvious demand to continue the conversation inside.

In response, she reached gripped the side of the door, blocking him from entering. "Why?" she pressed.

"It was a business trip." Lie. She could see it clearly now—the way he stared determinedly at her, golden eyes boring into hers oh so convincingly.

Almost _too_ convincingly.

"You never told me what you work as," she commented idly, leaning against the door frame. She oozed off nonchalance, but her arms were tense, her grip on the door tightening.

"Christine," Erik sighed exasperatedly, "can't we continue this conversation inside?"

"No. Tell me what your occupation is."

He regarded her stonily, before stating, "You called me."

"I did," she confirmed.

He stared at her with intent, before saying quietly, "Only my employer has that number."

Before she realised what she had done, she closed her eyes, unintentionally confirming Erik's silent question. It was true. He hadn't said the words, but Raoul had gotten the number from his father; it _definitely_ belonged to a member of the KGB. She let her eyes stay shut for a brief moment before opening them once more, meeting his guarded golden eyes. "Meg will probably be out the whole night," she muttered, knowing they couldn't continue discussing such topics in the open. She stepped aside, allowing him entry.

Erik stepped inside and swiftly shut the door behind him, locking it. He immediately began scouring the flat, looking into every nook and cranny. She watched him, alarmed. What did he expect to find? A hidden camera?

But as she continued observing, she realised that a hidden camera was _exactly_ what he was searching for. He thought her flat might have been bugged.

He finally straightened and nodded once, before crossing the room in long strides and grabbing her face in his hands. She felt her breath hitch, taken aback. His thumbs brushed over her features with a trembling gentleness, as if searching for any injuries or signs of disarray. At last, he let out a relieved, ragged sigh. "You're safe," he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers, "you're safe."

It felt so safe, so _right_ to feel him against her once more. She was pressed to him, feeling the familiar planes of his hard chest, his strong thighs.

But as much as she craved his touch, she knew she couldn't allow this to continue. Loathing and priding herself for it, Christine wrenched herself away from his embrace. Her cheeks immediately felt cold without his warmth covering it and she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest. "Why wouldn't I be safe, Erik?" she asked, biting a trembling lip.

"I thought—when you called, that they had you." His deep voice was shaky, as if he had cause to fear for her life.

She wanted to melt into him, forget this ever happened.

As he stepped forwards, she took a step back, suddenly remembering his lies, his secrecy. "Who's 'they', Erik?" she questioned, refusing to submit to her fickle emotions.

Erik hesitated, but she pressed on.

"Who are you talking about?" she asked quietly, even as she gazed at him with a certainty to his response.

He regarded her silently, before saying, "I think you already know the answer to that."

* * *

He watched her reaction silently.

Initially, he had been outraged at the sight of a handsome boy leaving his Christine's home. He hadn't caught the last of their conversation, only hearing a faint, "Goodnight, Christine," coming from the boy before he left.

And Christine had leaned against the wall, _watching him go_. Her gaze seemed almost wistful to his eyes, holding a sadness he had never seen before. She looked haggard, completely exhausted.

Surely the KGB would not send a mere _boy_ to threaten his Christine, but Erik knew that he could not underestimate appearances. Still, the idea that this boy was sent by the KGB seemed wrong. Christine certainly didn't look threatened, bearing no signs of distress or fear he had come to associate with such victims.

Instead, a surge of boiling jealousy erupted from within him. He fought to suppress it, but it was slowly eating him up, encompassing his every thought. The boy was handsome, the perfect height for Christine—unlike his lanky tallness and sharp features. Seeing them together made him seethe inside. And before he could think about what he was doing, he had swiftly held the door before she could shut it completely and demanded to know who the boy was.

Now here he stood, inside her empty flat, feeling as if he had been hit by a thousand blazing suns all hurled at him at once. _She knew_. Of course, he needed to address _how_ she had come to know, but he had to first address _her_.

She was standing away from him, posed in a defensive stance. Every limb of her perfect body was tense and guarded, watching him warily. It was as if she was preparing herself to flee from danger—from _him_.

He was dangerous to her.

But perhaps the worst sight of all was of her eyes—her usually trusting, open, warm blue eyes. They now stared at him with a mixture of pain and sadness—disappointment.

Despite every being he had killed, every threat he had stood against and emerged victorious, Erik now felt like he was a pile of dust at her feet. He felt worthless.

Without her, he _was_ worthless.

Her eyes travelled down his form, noting his bulky coat. "Take off your coat," she commanded suddenly.

He idly thought to himself that if the situation had been any different, he would have been incredibly aroused by her order.

But he knew what lay underneath the coat—his weapons. He had no desire for her to see instruments he used to kill others. "Christine," he began warningly, "you don't want me to."

"You've already searched my flat, Erik," she said bitterly, meeting his gaze resentfully. "There's nothing here; no hidden cameras or microphones. Raoul is not and has never been a threat to me—in fact, he's been a dear friend, who has always considerate of telling me the _truth_ , which is more than I could say for you." Her words cut him deeply, but he knew that he deserved every scorning look she gave him. She looked at him sharply. "You're not hiding from me—not this time, Erik Destler. Take off your coat."

"Devereux," he corrected.

She frowned. "What?"

"My name," he clarified. If she was to strip him of his dignity, she may as well know who he truly was. "I'm not Erik Destler—I'm Erik Devereux."

She stared at him unwaveringly. "You lied to me. Again."

"Yes," he confirmed, sighing. "I lied about my name. But I'm telling you the truth now—"

"Erik," she interrupted, "I appreciate that, but right now, _I'm_ deciding what I want you to tell me, and I didn't ask you to disclose your name. Stop trying to change the subject. Your _coat_ , Erik."

Her words were sharp—a command daring to be defied. What would have been usually difficult for Erik—stripping himself bare, completely vulnerable in front of her eyes—was suddenly incredibly, efficiently easy. What did it matter what he was in front of her if she was going to shun him nonetheless?

Never breaking her gaze, Erik reached for the fastenings of his coat, slowly loosening it with surprisingly steady fingers. When all the buttons had been undone, he shrugged the coat off, letting it drop to the floor.

Her hand instantly flowed to her mouth. He knew what she was seeing—him, dressed in black from head to toe. The material of his suit was especially designed to ensure he encountered no physical difficulties in his assignments. His boots were of the finest leather, sturdy and sharp, easy to run and climb in. But her gaze was fixed on his waist, where weapons hung from his belt. He watched as her eyes traced over his pistols, his daggers, his sleeper agents. Curled up by his thigh was the faint outline of a Punjab lasso, black rope easily camouflaged by his suit.

"The mask?" she asked in a choked whisper. He should have been surprised—again, _how did she know?_ —but was unnervingly calm as he bent to reach the floor, never once looking away as he fished inside his coat pocket. He didn't hesitate at pulling the it out, revealing the black, expressionless mask to her.

Christine inhaled sharply, breaths coming out in uneven, unsteady puffs. She staggered backwards, but when he immediately rose to help her she recoiled. "Don't touch me," she hissed, shaking her head.

He flinched, stepping back. Never had she addressed him in such a way. "Christine, I'm—"

"The Phantom."

He held her gaze for a beat. "Yes. You knew."

She reached up and covered her mouth with her hand, shutting her eyes painfully. "Yes," she moaned, shaking her head. "It's true. Even with everything Raoul showed me, even when I called you—I really, desperately _hoped_ that it wasn't real, that you weren't him. That it was some huge coincidence and you happened to be caught in the middle of it all."

Knowing he had to address her sudden knowledge of him, he asked calmly, "How did you know?"

"I can't—I can't talk about that right now, Erik—"

"Christine," he said forcefully, gritting his teeth, "you must. I've been incredibly careful to cover up my tracks, but if you found out so easily then something must have gone amiss." He held her gaze, refusing to submit to the turmoil that was slowly building within him, refusing to let her shattered expression faze him. "This is the _government_ , Christine," he told her, letting his words sink in. "Any threat and they will not hesitate to get rid of it."

She regarded him for a moment, looking at him with wide, distrusting eyes. His angel, once so unguarded, now stood before him with a stoic stillness that shook him to his core. "My friend—Raoul," she said finally, closing her eyes in defeat. "He told me."

"How did he—"

"He's the son of a government official. Please, Erik, don't ask me to say anymore. I don't want him killed."

Her eyes bore into his, all the while beseeching a silent request she had no wish to speak aloud. _Please don't kill him_.

Erik swallowed, all too aware of the thoughts that must be swirling through her mind at this very moment. _Killer, murderer, spy_... those were the titles she associated him with. All forms of sin; those of which she had never once related herself to, never even considered to be a part of her life. And now she was suddenly thrust into this mad life he lived—thrust into secrets and lies, the ever-pressing dangers of being exposed, the threat of the government looming above them.

For her comfort, he answered, "You have no need to worry about that, Christine." But in the inner depths of his mind, her words twisted over him. There were only so many who worked for the Soviet government who knew of him. It would not be difficult to find this Raoul she spoke of, to silence him forever.

Mulling over his dangerous thoughts, he asked, "How do you know him?" He wanted to know just who this boy was—how he was linked to his Christine, what he wanted with her, what business he had with disclosing confidential information.

He wanted to know if this _Raoul_ was worth killing.

Her eyes remained closed, too afraid to meet his own. "He's an old friend," she breathed, shaking her head. "I've known him since I was seven years old. When my father died, he was the rock that held me together. Without him, I would have been lost in my grief. He's my friend, my confidant, my brother."

He itched to kill this boy she spoke of, but her words stopped his murderous thoughts. _I've known him since I was seven years old... My brother._ No, he couldn't. He couldn't hurt someone so dear to Christine, even if it threatened his very person, his safety. His insides knotted uncomfortably at the thought of leaving this boy alive—this boy who knew too much about him, who was willing to disclose private information to Christine. Information that could get her killed, but that she needed to be aware of.

If Raoul was as true a friend as Christine described, then he would want to protect her from someone he deemed dangerous. Better yet that he had the opportunity to _access_ such information to help her; of _course_ he would attempt to uncover the Phantom's secrets...

No, Erik would discover all he could about this Raoul. But he would not kill him.

He would not hurt her that way.

She cut through his reverie with a sudden firmness to her voice. "Enough," she said sharply, her closed eyes now wide with a new determined, fiery resolve. "I'm not telling you anymore about him, Erik. Leave him be. I want to know about _you_ —I want to know everything."

"You don't, Christine," he protested.

"Try me."

She was staring at him, daring him to challenge her. A hardened woman had replaced the naive girl she had been, clouded by hurt and secrecy, unwilling to be deceived again. Erik wanted to reach for her hand, but knew that she would recoil from him again. So, swallowing his hurt, he spoke. "I want to tell you that you're wrong about me," he said slowly, "but I've lied to you far too many times, Christine. You deserve better."

"I deserve the _truth_ _!"_ she yelled suddenly at him, words spitting out of her lips furiously. All the pent-up anger, the frustration that she had harboured over him poured forth, lashing him with her spite. "I deserve to know who you are and what I had gotten myself into from the very _beginning_. But no, you just had to, just kept stringing up lies like I meant _nothing_ to you—"

"Christine, you know you are _everything_ to me," he said sharply, walking forwards once more. It confused and alarmed him that she had gone from painfully recounting her friendships with Raoul to yelling at him with all the spite she harboured in her soul. Christine was livid; she was hellfire itself. He knew his words would mean little to her, but his devotion was too concrete to be pushed aside. He may not be able to make her believe him, but he would damn well _try_.

"How can I know that?" she cried, shaking her head. His heart clenched painfully at the idea that she had cause to doubt his love. "You've been lying to me this entire time—you didn't even tell me your _last name_ —"

"I couldn't!" he objected hotly. "I couldn't leave a _trace_ to show that we were connected in any way—"

"But we _are,_ Erik, don't you understand that?" Christine was glaring at him by now, face reddened with pent-up frustration, chestnut curls wild and wavy. She was fiery, angry, like a goddess of war. "It's too late for that. No matter what you do, you'll always be linked to me—some _stupid_ girl who loved you with everything she had—"

His heart skipped a beat at that. "So you still love me?" he questioned hopefully, desperately latching onto any scraps she threw his way. If there was any way that she could still love him for this, he would be but a beggar at her feet. He would take what he could get, if he deserved it or not.

He had always been a selfish man, after all.

But her next words cut through him sharply.

"I thought I did. Now I'm not so sure."

The slow, cold feeling that washed over his body startled him. He would have thought that he would feel heat. Heat and anger, perhaps betrayal and a surge of bitterness. But now, as she stared at him with her guarded, pained blue eyes and refused to come near him, he only felt cold. The blood that ran through his veins froze, tendrils icy and still.

 _She hates me_ , he realised. _She hates me for lying to her_. All the lies he had made up, the efforts he had gone through to protect their relationship—it was all in vain.

She knew, she hated him for it, and he had no one but himself to blame.

"I thought I knew you, Erik," she whispered, shaking her head. "I don't. But I—" She laughed without humour, almost defeatedly. "I still need to know your side of this. I want to see if your story matches up with mine."

He felt hopeless, lost. Her words that should have lit a beacon of hope within his chest did nothing. Even if he told her everything, he knew her love for him would not return.

"You won't like who I am, Christine," he murmured, shaking his head despondently.

"I'll be the judge of that."

Christine was resolute; firm. She stood before him, an angel clasping a burning sword. She could undo him with a single glance.

His chest tightened, squeezing his lungs. How he loved her.

It was with this love that he succumbed to her wishes. "Alright," he conceded softly, defeatedly. He felt as if he were signing his death sentence, yet remained powerless to stop his pen from moving across the paper. "Where should I start?"

"From the very beginning."

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

Christine lay on their bed, curled upon her side.

Erik was in the bathroom, as he always was at this time of night. While before she had fiercely prohibited herself from entering when he was inside, she now felt a distinct numbness, a lack of will to impose upon him. She knew that he was changing his bandages, but the hope at one day seeing his face was now diminished.

She mulled over his words from the afternoon in her mind. _Nothing has changed_. Did he truly believe it? Did he truly think that he could come home after journeying through Hades' realm, and have everything be the same once again? The logic of it spurred doubtfully within her mind, but knowing Erik, it was possible. Her husband, after all, was a stubborn man. If he was adamant on believing in something, he would until his dying breath.

She had thought that she could change his perceptions, but after discovering his firm, almost savage conviction—she hesitated, doubtful. Was she trying to close a permanent wound? Was her goal of healing him an impossible one?

Long ago—it seemed so long ago—she had thought that she could not possibly face a greater challenge than the one Erik posed to her upon discovering his secret. Now as she looked back, she realised that their troubles had been a simple trial.

The _real_ challenge was upon her now: trying to fix a husband who refused to be fixed.

Perhaps she shouldn't use the word 'fix'. Erik didn't need fixing—he needed to be healed. But wasn't healing a more delicate form of fixing? He had come back to her, scarred and haunted by memories he had no wish to share with her. Memories she now understood he had no wish to revisit. Her Erik was stuck in a constant cycle of denial: denial to acknowledge his experiences, denial to continue living as he normally would.

He confused her to no end, and Christine knew that she needed to be patient with him. But between tiresome rehearsals and the stress of caring for a husband who had no wish to be cared for was making her weary. She felt old, suddenly. Old and fatigued, a woman existing without living.

 _Everything around her was silent and still; everything apart from the thudding of his heart against her ear, the slow trace of his fingers upon her skin. In the dead of the night, she felt as if they were the only ones who breathed. Nobody existed apart from him and her, two lovers tangled in the sheets of their wedding bed, basking in contentment of their love._

 _They lay facing each other, lost in the other's gaze. Her entire body felt warm, flushing healthily as she moved herself against him. He gently touched his forehead to hers. Skin met skin, delicate and sparking._

 _She was too contented, too overcome by his love. The feel of his breath ghosting her mouth, wispy and warm. She parted her lips, letting him breathe life into her soul._

 _"Erik," she murmured, lips lightly kissing his as they moved._

 _She felt rather than heard his hum, a deep, low sound vibrating within his chest. "Christine," he breathed in return, his voice a beautiful baritone, thick with sleep. Her heart fluttered at the sound of her name from his lips._

 _There was nothing more beautiful than this, nothing more beautiful than him. He thought himself to be average, unpleasing to look at with his overly angular features and lanky body, lightly toned with quiet, rippling muscles. How she wished she could make him see as she did whenever she gazed at him. No, her Erik was beautiful. But he was most beautiful when they were alone and tangled together, and moving together in a slow, exquisite dance. It was then when she savoured the sight of him the most; when his golden eyes would darken and smoulder with desire, his beautiful voice ragged and breathy, his face buried within her curls as he kissed her neck. When his lips would part as his face contorted, pulse racing as he fell apart within her, and the knowledge that she, and she alone, had done this._

 _During those moments, he was a god._

 _But a constant fear gripped her, warning against an ever-present threat to their happiness. She knew not what she feared_ — _only that she did. In the dead of the night she felt most vulnerable; her soul laid bare before him, fragile and exposed for the world to see. Her body pressed to his instinctively, aching to join his flesh, to become one with him again and again._ _"Let's never leave," she whispered, a hand rising to rest against a stubbled cheek, fingers lightly touching the hair that fell across his face. "I want to stay here with you forever, Erik."_

 _"Christine, my Christine," he murmured softly, "you know we cannot do that." He turned his face and pressed his lips to her palm, and she curled her fingers into a light fist, holding his kiss against her skin._

 _"Then promise me you'll never leave me."_

 _His forehead creased and he pulled back slightly so that he could look at her properly. "Why are you asking that of me?" he questioned, propping himself up on an elbow and hovering his face above hers. Her hair was mussed about the pillows, strewn in a halo. Her eyes latched onto his collarbone, refusing to meet his gaze. "Christine?" he prodded gently. She looked back up at him, expression open and honest, startling blue eyes fearful. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her._

 _"I'm so happy right now," she whispered, barely audible if his face wasn't so close to hers. "You_ — _you make me so happy, Erik."_

 _"You know that when I'm with you, I'm walking in Elysium, Christine." He looked into her troubled eyes and frowned. "What is it? Are you afraid? Tell me, my love."_

 _She smiled at his words, both hands reaching up to cradle his face. Her fingers tugged until he had no choice but to cover his body with hers until he was fully atop her. "I'm scared this won't last," she revealed softly, brushing a hand through his hair. "I feel too contented, too happy, but I'm afraid this will be ripped from us." She looked up at him, eyes brimming with emotion, her heart threatening to burst. "I don't want you to ever leave me."_

 _"I won't," he vowed, staring deeply into her eyes. "I may be called away, and stay without you for some time. But I'll always come back to you. After all," he smiled wryly, brushing a thumb across her lips, "you are my heart. It's not like I can live without it."_

 _She returned the smile, hers warm and loving. "I couldn't bear living without you, Erik."_

 _"Before you entered my life, I wasn't."_

 _Overcome, she tossed her arms around his neck and pulled her towards him. Desire stirred within her, from his words and his encompassing love, and she wrapped herself around him, pulling him against her, into her. His lips met hers as they became one, and she threaded fingers within his hair, desperate to pull him closer, needing him around her, inside her. She took everything he had to offer; his body, his love, his name and weaved it into her, treasuring it within her chest._

 _"I love you," she gasped as she neared her zenith, clutching at his cheeks and hair and shoulders. "I love you_ — _I love you so much. Oh, I love you." How small those words were_ —so _simple and yet so momentous. How could those three words manage to convey everything she wished to say to him?_

 _But Erik caught her lips with his, understanding all the nameless emotions, the fierce devotion she held for him. He always understood. He pressed himself deeper into her, yearning to tangle himself within her and into her soul. To him, she was the entire universe, every written poem or song, every thought that left his mind. He made love to her with a savage tenderness, his heart aggressively beating within his ribcage, wishing to join with its mate._

 _And as he disintegrated within her, pouring his life inside her, he pressed his forehead to hers and breathed his vow into her._

 _"As I love you."_

Christine was shaken out of her reverie at the sound of the bathroom door quietly opening. Light peeked through the small opening before it abruptly shut. She lay with her back to the door, listening to his quiet footsteps nearing their bed, wishing she could feel him in her arms once more.

She held her breath as he stopped by his side of the bed. Her ears strained to discover what he was doing, but he must have simply been watching her, for she heard no movements, felt no rustle of the bed as he settled into it. He stood for a long moment, merely staring at her form as she feigned sleep.

She almost didn't hear the hushed, "I'm sorry," murmured into the quiet room.

His footsteps travelled further away from her, towards the direction of the door. Her eyes were wide and fearful, wishing he would not open it. A long pause, and then the soft creak of their bedroom door opening before he vanished into their hall.

As soon as he left she sat up, staring numbly at the door. _He left_ , she thought dumbly to herself. _He left me alone in our bed_.

Her heart beating rapidly within her chest, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, intending to follow after him. But she froze before her feet could touch the floor, suddenly unsure.

Christine held her pose for a moment, before silently settling herself back into the bed. She would wait until he returned, she decided to herself. Fighting away her loneliness, she buried her face into his pillow, breathing in his scent and willing herself to sleep.

He never came.

* * *

 **A/N:** As always, let me know what you think!


	7. Doing You Wrong

**A/N:** Hi, everyone, I finally updated! Woohoo!

Also, it has come to my notice that I've been mistaken in some of my facts—the cordless phones that Erik and Christine had used were not, in fact, invented until the 90s. There were telephones, but these were wired. My mistake, I know, and I'll be sure to rectify that... however, this probably won't be until I finish the rest of this fic, since that's my top priority right now. I will go back and edit chapters after. Thank you to the guest who pointed it out!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album _Sigh No More_. The song featured in this chapter is called  Reminder.

* * *

 _Don't let me darken your door._

 _That's not what I came here for,_

 _No it's not what I came here for._

 _And I won't hear you cry when I'm gone._

 _I won't know if I'm doing you wrong,_

 _I never know if I'm doing you wrong._

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

Two months had passed, and Erik hadn't returned to their bed, instead choosing to spend his nights on the sofa in the living room.

Christine hadn't known how to react. When she had first ventured out of the bedroom three nights after he had abandoned her in their bed, she had been expecting him to be standing by the window, looking out into the gloom; perhaps, if she was lucky, he would be pouring over his old compositions in his music room, struggling to regain his muse. It never occurred to her, however, that he would be seeking sleep elsewhere. When she came across him sprawled out on their sofa, Christine had frozen.

His limbs were hanging off the sofa that was obviously too small for him. His right arm draped across the floor, long legs dangling off the end. His bandaged head lolled to the side, facing inwards as he dozed on.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, languid pace, indicating he was in a deep, dreamless sleep. He shifted slightly, and it was clear he was uncomfortable on the sofa.

Christine watched her husband sleep, shocked. A slow, gradual sting was travelling through her blood, finally reaching her heart. She placed a hand there, trying in vain to shield it from the internal hurt that attacked her lungs. The sight of him sleeping away from her had not met her eyes for the longest time.

 _Why?_ was her first question. When he left their room, she always assumed that it was because he was restless and wanted time alone. Perhaps he was used to solitude after his months away from her, and she was willing to give him space to readjust to their former sleeping schedule.

Did he feel smothered by her? Was he uncomfortable sleeping next to her? Was she scaring him away?

Or did he refrain from sleeping in the same bed as her simply because he didn't _want_ to anymore?

She stood there for a while, numb. Erik slept soundlessly, never letting out a groan or snore—something she had long since grown used to. But to think that he was out _here_ while she slept in their bed, cramped on their small little sofa and avoiding her...

Softly, she padded her way to his side and kneeled by his head. Wordlessly, she observed her husband's sleeping face—or what she could see of it from the fresh bandages tightly wrapped around it. She frowned; it couldn't have been comfortable. A limited amount of his mouth and sharp chin were exposed to her eyes, since Erik had arranged the bandages so that they rested slightly above his jaw. His thin, defined lips were parted, which she had come to learn meant his exhaustion. She tilted her head to the side, exhaling softly. Surely there was some great injury that was preventing him from showing his face to her. Yes, that was it: he wanted to shield her delicate eyes from his marred skin, being the considerate man he was...

Christine, however, couldn't help but ascertain that she didn't care. She would not shun him for whatever he had been forced to endure. She loved him too much for that.

He shifted, and a strand of hair fell over his forehead. Instinctively, she reached to brush it away, but as soon as her fingers lightly touched his bandages, a hand shot out and grabbed at her wrist tightly.

She gasped. Erik's eyes were wide open and staring at her imposingly now, golden eyes glittering in the darkness. Knowing that struggling in his grip would further upset him, she let her hand go limp. His eyes were menacing, lips curled into a snarl. He was breathing heavily, glaring at her with all the intimidation of a threatened panther.

"Erik," she spoke softly, trying not to wince against his tight grip. She sadly wondered if he still believed he was _there_ —having to respond to the slightest form of a threat, protect himself from anything and everything possible.

Her Erik was still fighting to survive in a home that held no need for such measures.

She saw it the moment realisation struck him. Yellow eyes cleared, as if slowly coming to his senses; harsh pants slowed. His grip on her wrist softened slightly, but he did not let go.

"What are you doing?" he intoned sharply. His voice was still deep with sleep, rough at the edges.

"I wanted to brush your hair away." Her reply was honest, voice reduced to a whisper. She felt unnerved in the moonlight, darkness never having been her friend. Erik sat up and stretched, grimacing uncomfortably.

"Why are you sleeping out here?" she asked gently, still kneeling by the sofa. She had to tilt her head upwards to meet his eyes. "You don't look comfortable," she observed, then laid a delicate hand upon the arm of the sofa. "Come back to bed."

He let out a soft groan. He was entirely shrouded in shadow; she could only make out the faint outline of his covered features and hair. Then, he shook his head. "I'm fine out here, Christine. You should go to sleep."

She frowned. "I don't like you sleeping out here, Erik. The sofa is much too small for you."

"I'll manage."

"Erik." Reaching out a hand, she gently laid it on his and waited until he relaxed to her touch. "Why won't you sleep next to me, my love?" she asked softly, gazing at him gently.

He shook his head once more and pulled his hand away. "I—I just can't, Christine."

"But Erik—"

"Christine, please."

He sounded tired, resigned, as if she were a burden he had to shoulder. Christine's gaze fell to her lap, where she rested her hand upon. The air was filled with a tense silence, and she could feel his rigidness above her. Finally, she asked, "Do you want another pillow?"

"No. Thank you, Christine."

"Don't." She let out a sigh and rose, smoothening her nightgown. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

His reply was clipped, formal—as if he was addressing an acquaintance from work, or random passerby. Nodding to herself, Christine silently left the living room and made her way back to their bedroom—if it was still theirs, that was. She began to think that it was slowly becoming hers.

As she settled back into her bed, Christine couldn't help but think to herself that for all their efforts, their marriage was slowly falling apart.

* * *

 _ **January 10, 1978**_

Erik lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He had left Christine's flat two hours ago. They had sat by the sofa with a wide space in between, much to his dismay. She hadn't been kind to him—only speaking to him in clipped tones, staring at him with a reserved, guarded look that bore none of the love she had once freely given him—but then again, he shouldn't have expected anything else. He deserved her scorn for all the lies he had told her.

He felt numb, unfeeling. The ever-present ache had dulled into an unpleasant string of inevitability that he would never again feel her love.

She had asked him questions, and he had answered them. He held nothing back, even if instinct was screaming at him to keep his mouth shut. Erik didn't trust easily—but Christine had given her trust wholeheartedly only for him to give nothing in return. If anything, she deserved to know everything about him, just as he had pried eagerly into her life, absorbing information about her childhood, her father, her music. What drove her passion and what scorched it; the very essence of her being poured into five months of their blissful relationship.

So he had told her everything.

 _"I was born in France, in a small town called Rouen, to a woman named Madeleine Devereux. I never knew what became of my father, only that he had been a miner and that he met his death during his working hours. My mother was very upset; she loved him very much. And since I came shortly after his death, she blamed me for it. Madeleine... she had a violent temper, one that she used on me. When I was younger, I hated myself for killing my father, but now..._ _n_ _ow that I've mulled it over, I cannot possibly imagine how I might have been responsible for his death. But grief, Christine_ — _grief_ _does terrible things to a person._

 _"There were, however, moments I don't regret. Madeleine... she had a beautiful soprano voice. Rich, strong, clear. She sang, but could never quite grasp the concept of instruments. When I excelled at them, she got angry. She... beat me. I had a smart mouth and asked many questions, and she got increasingly irritated by them_ —especially _if they were ones she didn't know the answer to_ _. It hurt her pride, I think; she would send me to my room after taking her anger out on me. I'm sorry, Christine, but I don't wish to tell you what she did to me_ — _you won't want to hear it._

 _"When I was ten, I finally decided that I'd had enough of my mother and ran away. I settled on a train that was leaving the town, and kept travelling further from Rouen until, one day, I finally found myself out of France. It was liberating. My boyhood... it wasn't pleasant, Christine. I kept to the streets and stole from the rich. I spit on passing strangers and stole supplies to sketch on. The only benefit that came out of it, perhaps, were the sights_ — _beautiful buildings and statues, all waiting to be drawn and admired._ _When I could, I'd sneak into theatres so that I could watch the symphony, or operas, from the flies. I lived like this for years. Sometimes, I would charm my way into families' houses and take their artefacts and heirlooms. Every country across Europe had an unequal divide between the rich and the poor, and I hated that._

 _"Eventually, I settled in Rome. The architectural sights... they were_ magnificent _, Christine_. _I spent my days by the Colosseum, and I think that, if I had the chance, I would have spent my entire life staring at it._ _The opera was spectacular; the ballet, not so much. I lived as I normally did_ — _by theft and pickpocketing._ _I had no friends; I didn't want any, and I thought I had no need for them. Perhaps if I did have some, I wouldn't have been so easily influenced. But there were men, Christine, and they wanted justice. They did what I did_ — _sneaking into the rich houses, swiping their valuables and belongings_ — _only, they were more violent than I had been. After living my whole life being hated by my mother and living on the streets, the idea of shunning the privileged appealed to me. I joined their group... and it was quite possibly the worst decision I had made."_

 _"Why did you stop? I told you I want to know everything."_

 _"Christine, trust me. You don't want to know this."_

 _"Erik, what could possibly be worse than what I already know about you?"_

Thinking back upon her words made him grimace. A spasm of pain throbbed in his chest and he rubbed it instinctively, knowing such an action would do nothing to quell the living ache he felt at her cold, harsh words. He had spent years of his life being threatened, spit on, and hissed at with malice by his victims, but never had he been so affected by anyone's words than he had been by Christine's.

He looked around his room, eyes landing on the various objects he had collected over the years. A crystallised swan. A painting of Athena. A golden anklet.

He had tried his best to hide his hurt and had swallowed, carrying on.

 _"When I said they were violent, I meant it. They smashed their way into mansions and terrorised rich neighbourhoods. It was only during my fourth night with them that I discovered this amounted to killing, as well."_

 _"What? You mean that you_ — _you_ —killed _while you were with them?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"...How old were you?"_

 _"They must have found me when I was about sixteen."_

 _"Didn't you_ — _surely you didn't want to, surely they_ made _you_ —"

 _"They pressured me, yes. But ultimately, I chose to kill. I found it... thrilling, taking the life of another. I spent years doing this and weaved myself into the underground network of thugs and criminals. I_ became _them, for a while. It was during this time that I had come to know of the Soviet Union, and their practice of socialism. It appealed to me, so I decided to carry on myself while making my way across Europe once more_ — _this time, to Russia."_

 _"And did you... did you keep_ — _?"_

 _"Yes."_

Erik pursed his lips together. He had seen the look of disgust, of revulsion in her eyes when she had heard what he'd had to say. Even after all she'd discovered about him, his beautiful, innocent Christine still found atrocities to be shocked at. Remembering the disbelief she held in her gaze only made him close his eyes in shame.

 _"And the KGB... how did you end up working with them?"_

 _"A year after I arrived in the USSR, they found me. Apparently they had been trailing me as soon as I had entered the country_ — _as they do to most immigrants_ _. The Soviets are a distrustful people, Christine, and they monitor their citizens very closely. They followed me and thought I could be of use to them, and so offered me a place. I took it. I was nineteen at the time. It was only years after that I uncovered their corruption_ — _but I was already too far gone, Christine. By that time, I simply didn't care anymore_ — _I was suddenly offered wealth and power, and like the boy I was, I took it_ _. It didn't matter that it wasn't right. Even when I had my doubts, I knew that the government could not be undone so easily. Why should I have cared if there was nothing to be done about it?"_

 _"_... _But do_ _you care now?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"You seem to have inspired empathy within me, Christine."_

It had been too much for her. After he had concluded his tale, she had quietly told him to leave. And, just as quietly, he had risen from his seat and crossed the room to her door, sliding on his cloak as he did so. He remembered looking back and stopping at the sight of her—tired eyes, messy hair, pale complexion. She had looked defeated; withdrawn. She hadn't offered him a goodbye, and he hadn't uttered one. He had simply torn his gaze away, slid into the night and disappeared within the shadows once more.

Erik bit at the fingers of his gloves, tearing the material off his hands and tossed them carelessly onto the floor. Usually he was a meticulous cleaner, but at the moment, he couldn't care less. He felt defeated, undone—miserable. The ache in his chest had not faded; even _breathing_ felt as if he were inhaling shards of glass, all brushing the expanse of his heart as he inhaled. It didn't matter—none of it did. What importance did a pair of gloves lying around hold if Christine didn't love him?

He sighed irritably; once again, he was sinking into his hole of self-pity, and he _hated_ it. He _hated_ the power she held over him, even if she didn't know of it. His feelings for her had clouded his vision, replacing the hard, impenetrable man with one who would fall to his knees and kiss her dress if she wanted him to. He _hated_ how much he wanted to please and love her. If she asked, he would run from the government and never look back. Carve a new identity for himself and hide away so that nobody would be able to find him—except for her. _Anything for her._

But that would bring up complications and threats that wouldn't bode well. If Christine ever asked that of him, he knew that, rationally, he would have to deny her. No matter how corrupt, the Soviet government was powerful. He had no benefits of being nobility, no family name to protect him. If he suddenly chose to leave, they would want to know why—and they would find out about Christine.

 _Christine._ He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling harshly. Her safety was his upmost concern. He would give his life to protect her, but first, he needed to ensure that she would not be put in danger in the first place. He'd almost had a heart attack when she had phoned him, thinking that she had been taken in by the KGB. Once he realised that she had not been in danger but had, in fact, discovered his position through the connections of a childhood _friend_ , he had wanted to snap at her for causing him such distress.

 _Raoul_. Christine had refused to tell him much about the boy, but Erik had enough to discover what he could about him. The son of a government official who had lent her his telephone? There were not many families within the Soviet Union who _owned_ telephones, much less _two._ From what Erik had seen of him, he too had donned an expensive coat typical of the elite, but judging from the impression Erik had gained from Christine, he seemed to be as opposed to the corruption of the government as Erik.

But he seemed exactly that: a _boy_. Even if his efforts were noble, Raoul seemed to be the kind of man who was foolishly righteous—almost dangerously so. What business did he have sharing confidential information with Christine? Erik himself had never taken any liberties with endangering Christine by exposing his position, even if that meant lying to her. But now—she knew too much.

And Erik was determined to discover more about her source.

With effort, he sat up in the bed, pushing his self-pity away. There was no use in brooding over Christine anymore—he knew that he had lost her love for good. The most he could do for her now was to ensure her safety.

When he had first returned to his flat (for he could never call what _they_ had given him a home), Erik had stripped his weapons off without a care and littered them over his bedroom, before proceeding to lie on his bed and wallow in his regrets. Now he manoeuvred the room, picking them up and securely disposing them in his cupboard. He shed the black suit he wore, putting it out of sight so that it could be cleaned upon his return. Instead, he donned his usual everyday attire, choosing dark colours that would enable him to blend into the early hours of morning.

When the time neared four, he ventured out into the cold once more, wrapped in a thick cloak and scarf. He inconspicuously clung to the shadows as he always had, making his way to the theatre where his workspace was hidden. The theatre was empty as always when he arrived, and for a moment, he stared wistfully at the stage. It was abandoned and dusty, floors destroyed with scratch marks. The chandelier had destroyed everything; the wallpaper torn and burnt, curtains frayed, the velvet of the seats melted. Set pieces littered the flies, deserted as the crew hastily ran out of the burning building. But it still held some of its magnificence; the acoustics were beautiful, the wood of the stage still holding some shine to it. Some delicate glass shards of the chandelier were still intact, glittering in the darkness.

Nobody knew of this theatre apart from him, but if _she_ knew...

He closed his eyes in wonder. What he would give to listen to her sing here, in this magnificent theatre, holding a show only they could share. To hear her voice rising up into the heavens and sweetly drown himself in her song, filling up this lonely hall.

Erik opened his eyes and sighed. _There is no use dwelling on what cannot be,_ he told himself firmly. Christine would never step foot into this theatre—he would make sure of it. He stared at the stage for a moment, fingers brushing at his lips as if kissing the fantasy goodbye. Then, with great reluctance, he tore his gaze from the stage and purposefully strode towards the hidden door at the side, triggering the mechanism so that it slid smoothly aside.

The journey down was quick. He moved with practiced fluidity, navigating through the staircase and tunnels without hesitation. There was no need for a light; his eyesight had grown sharp over years of spy work. The dank, dark walls were almost comforting—familiar. There was nothing new about the labyrinth; nothing that would jump upon him as Christine had.

He firmly shook his head, pushing all thoughts of her away. _No. Focus on her safety._

The gondola sat tied to its mast when he arrived, patiently waiting for its passenger. Erik undid the buttons by his wrists, bunching up his sleeves just below his elbow. He sharply unwound the knots with practiced ease. It was a simple task; one he had performed too many times to count. Always the same knots, always the same routine to undo them.

Nothing new.

But the sight of a faded splash onto the boat's seat stopped his tracks. He froze, arms still tensed from the effort of undoing his expert knots, and scanned the expanse of the wood with narrowed golden eyes. The wood was darker than usual, the little plank that served as a seat slightly blackened with water. A faint outline of trousers were imprinted onto the seat.

Erik never sat in the boat.

He immediately whipped out his pistol, keeping his finger by the safety lock. Someone else had been here. His hearing was sharp, his eyesight clear—there was no possibility that he had not sensed another within the walls he walked in, lurking as he did.

No; he would have noticed if anyone was in the building with him. He was too practiced to allow a victim to surpass him.

With long, spidery fingers, he reached out and brushed the wood. It was dry amidst its damp appearance, a sign that the intruder must have come days ago.

It was impossible for one to row and sit at the same time, so there must have been two people who crossed the lake. The idea made him bristle with annoyance. Not one person, but _two_ had infiltrated his domain? Perhaps if he had come earlier, he might have caught the light trail of footprints imprinted into the dusty ground, perhaps a hair or two caught by jagged walls...

Nobody had _ever_ infiltrated his workspace before—not once. But his mind kept replaying the scene with Christine, remembering how she had come across information he had kept guarded with his life. Was it possible that she had known of the theatre, after all? Had her _dear friend_ exposed her lover's morbid humour of living as a ghost inside walls that once held one?

With a newfound aggressiveness, Erik finished undoing the knots, tugging at them until they loosened. He felt a strange, sudden anger at having his space violated. After a lifetime of never having others who knew of him, it felt uncanny—almost painful—to have his work breached. He seethed. How _dare_ that boy take her here? What _right_ did he have in invading his personal workspace? A voice in the back of his mind whispered that he had done the same to Christine, but he pushed it aside, focusing on his anger. It was easier to be angry at her—easier than being hurt. If there was one person he might have given his trust to, it was Christine. How could she infiltrate upon his life like this—discover his seclusion and infiltrate his office?

An unpleasant chill settled in his chest from knowing she had invaded his life, just as he had hers.

He tossed the rope aside with a growl and stepped into the boat, uncaring of the water splashing as the it rocked from his weight. With rough movements, he pushed the boat away, stabbed the oars into the murky water and began rowing. It was messy and wet; by the end of the ride, the gondola was soaked with droplets of water. The ends of his coat were moist, his arms dripping droplets of water. The indentation on the seat was hardly visible now, the wood completely dampened from his rowing. There was no sign that anyone had been in the boat apart from him.

Erik stepped out of the boat and swiftly tied it to its mast, his movements rigid and controlled. As soon as the gondola was secure, he crossed the walkway to the end of the passage, the plain, bare door coming into view, and slipped into the room.

It was strange that he had expected to see it changed, somehow. Perhaps the chair would have been out of place, or the files carelessly strewn on the desk. But the room was empty and quiet as ever, desk and chair sitting silently in the middle of the space. He paused for a moment, hand still resting on the handle of the door, heartbeat slowing from his fading anger.

He almost felt... disappointed at the lack of change. He had endured the last ten minutes in the gondola envisioning the mess he would find in the room, thinking that she and the boy had trashed his workplace. He had _expected_ to feel betrayed, but the sight of his furniture as quaint as ever... it felt anticlimactic. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough, he would detect the faintest whiff of Christine's perfume in the air, her scent dominating his senses...

His eyes snapped open. No, he was forgetting himself again—and with purposeful strides, he walked towards the desk and pulled his drawer open. Ah, there: the slightly creased corner of the folder, the vaguely rumpled sheets of paper within it. Christine and her friend had definitely been through the folder, which—and he grimaced slightly at this—explained her revulsion at him. Being told that your lover was an assassin was difficult enough, but Christine must have been further revolted at finding real, solid evidence of the victims he had killed in her hands.

Erik dropped the folder onto the desk as if he were stung. This folder, his trusted companion whom had guarded his secrets and held confidentiality, was the same one that had played a part in taking away the love of his life. It was like looking at a faithless friend, an untrusted ally. He inched warily around it, tearing his gaze away and focusing once more on the drawer.

He bent slightly, tweaked with it—and the bottom of the drawer came free to reveal more sheets of paper underneath. He pulled out another folder, this one holding information he had gathered over his time with the KGB. Since he had no way to detach from the KGB, he had decided instead to discover all he could about the vast network of the Soviet government. The history of generals, diplomats, lawyers—Erik had them all. It proved useful when one of them was ousted, or if he were ever in a position where he could exploit their corruption.

Leafing through them, Erik lowered himself onto the hard, wooden chair and began his search. He separated and categorised the sheets—putting aside those who were not married and had no families, first, then sorting those who were of Russian descent after. He highly doubted that a Soviet-born would name his son 'Raoul', after all. The boy had been blonde—he used the vague memory of his appearance to find similarities with the men in the pictures.

At last, his hands froze across a document of a man. He had a stern, withdrawn face, his hair in patches and balding but smoothed back with a substantial amount of gel. He wore a crisp suit, freshly pressed and tailored to his size. His cheeks were slightly chubby, his moustache neatly trimmed. His eyes were light and colourless from the black and white photograph. Below the picture was a name printed in Erik's own handwriting.

 _Léonard de Chagny._

He was a proud man with a pompous air, to Erik's best knowledge. He had called on Erik frequently to his home, requesting his services and paying handsomely for his charges. Léonard de Chagny always had an enemy that needed to disappear, and Erik was always the best man for the job. And when they were done discussing the gruesome details of the assassination, he would always invite Erik for tea with his regal wife, which was almost always declined.

They were French, Erik knew. He scanned through the document; he was _sure_ that when he had visited the Chagny home, there had been pictures of children on the wall...

Sure enough, he had made a hasty scribble of children at the bottom of the page. He now examined the names, looking for a 'Raoul'. _Philippe, Elise, Jacqueline..._ his finger stopped at the tiny scrawl of _Raoul_ at the end of the sentence.

Erik sat back in his chair, blinking. The same Raoul who had discovered his secrets had been the son of his greedy employer. This Raoul whom Christine had described as her 'dearest friend' had a dissolute elite for a father who cared for nothing but his money. The same man whom had described in detail how he wished his enemies killed to ensure that his message was transmitted effectively.

He wondered if the boy knew what he was doing. Léonard had shared nothing with his wife, and Erik was certain he had shared nothing with his children. The Chagny Senior was a dangerous man, and if his son had an ordinary citizen as a childhood friend and wanted to protect her from the dangers of the government—Erik was sure that Raoul had no inclination of the lengths his own father would go to rid himself of a threat.

Determined, he shut the folder with a snap and tucked it safely underneath the drawer, arranging his documents carefully. He closed the drawer and stood, squaring his shoulders underneath the thick cloak he wore.

He would be paying a visit to Raoul de Chagny tonight.

* * *

Raoul yawned against the headboard, setting his book on the bedside table.

It was just after midnight, and he had been too immersed in his novel to remember that he had an early start the next morning. Nikolai—one of his friends from the _samizdat_ —had managed to get a hold of a book of short stories published outside the Soviet Union. Of course it was illegal to hold such copies, but Raoul interestedly devoured it, intrigued at what he found within the minds of the capitalists. They held such differences in culture—differences he was starved from, since the Soviet censorship was very tightly administered.

Long ago, he'd had dreams of escaping the USSR, of living his life freely as an equal man who had earned his living—perhaps gain enough supporters from the _samizdat_ to start a revolution. He saw now that they were idealistic and impractical. The Soviet Union was run on fear, and the people would not dare go against this. He remembered Christine's words in the dank musty underground room not long ago.

 _They'll arrest us all!_

No, fear was too tightly ingrained into their society. Raoul, however, was not afraid. He had an advantage the others didn't—a noble family name, one that could protect him should harm befall him. He was confident that his father would do all he could to ensure his safety should he be arrested. He was brave and young, and he wanted justice. He would do all he could—spy into the network of elite he was born into, discover how to topple the government from within.

He flicked the switch of his bedside lamp, engulfing the room in darkness.

The _samizdat_ were holding a meeting tomorrow morning to discuss the possibility of starting an official underground newspaper of their own. They would be written by their own journalists—Raoul included—and share the inside corruption that held their government together. Raoul was thrilled; throughout the years, they had been quiet, only sharing information with those who were deemed trustworthy. But with a newspaper, they could reach wider audiences, open the eyes of so many others. There would be many more years until the chance of a revolution could arise, but perhaps this could form a foundation for such a riot.

It was not much, but it was hope. He was eager to share all he had learnt about their government, eager to give back to the people the only way he knew how: by allowing them their right to _know_.

"You ought to be more careful, you know."

The deep voice was a sudden shock, slithering into the darkness of the night. Raoul shot up and scrambled to his bedside, heart pounding wildly as he fumbled for the switch of the lamp. Another hand got to it first, however, and the room was once again bathed in a warm glow.

A tall man stood towards the side. He had a straight nose, sharp jaw, cutting cheekbones. Cropped raven hair smoothed over his head, practical and inconspicuous. He was dressed smartly in a dress shirt and trousers, sleeves devoid of cufflinks. If he weren't so lean, Raoul would have been concerned for his health, for he was incredibly thin.

But the most imposing of all were his gleaming golden eyes, stark and vivid.

"The Phantom," Raoul breathed. He felt incredibly vulnerable clad in his nightclothes, huddled with his blankets up to his knees. His fingers moved beneath his pillow, clutching at the pistol he kept hidden underneath.

The man sighed wearily. "Yes," he said bluntly. His voice was smooth—hypnotising even with one word. "But I believe you also know me by another name."

Never breaking his gaze, Raoul stated, "Erik."

Erik nodded once, then folded his arms. So this was the man Christine was in love with. Raoul took a long look at the man, scrutinising even through his fear. Christine, though never materialistic, had always honed an appreciation for strong men. Erik was no exception. He stood with a regal air, silent power reverberating from his frame. Through the pressed dress shirt he wore were visible muscles, lean and lithe, lightly and lethally built. It was understandable, if Raoul knew his friend, that she had been attracted to such a man.

His waist was free of weapons, however, and Raoul relaxed ever so slightly at the sight. "I'm not here to hurt you," Erik told him, staring impassively at the younger blonde. "Your family is asleep, and I will silence you before scream, so I suggest that you don't attempt it."

Raoul swallowed, reminded that this man, while being Christine's lover, was also a highly trained killer. He slowly leaning back against the headboard once more. "Why are you here, then?" he asked warily.

Erik stared stonily at him. "I came to tell you just how foolish you've been."

Raoul blinked. "Foolish?" he questioned stupidly.

Erik exhaled irritably. "Yes, boy," he snapped, "foolish and _utterly_ careless." His fingers clenched and unclenched by his side, barely concealing his anger.

"Christine needed to know!" Raoul protested hotly. All thoughts of fear disappeared from his mind, now replaced by disbelief. _How_ could this man stand there and accuse _him_ of foolishness when _he_ was the one who had wronged Christine in the first place? A surge of protectiveness shook through Raoul's core—a strong desire to defend his best friend, to ensure she was not trapped by this man again. He felt slightly idiotic in his underdressed state, but pushed on. "She deserved to know that she was affiliating with a killer. There was _nothing_ foolish about what I chose to do. You led her on, took advantage of her. She received nothing—nothing but a string of lies and manipulation!"

"I had no choice!" Erik hissed, yellow eyes flashing in anger. "She couldn't know anything or she would be in danger. If I was compromised, the _first_ person they would threaten is her. It was best that she knew as little as possible. But you—you've undone all the measures I took to protect her by revealing everything—"

Raoul stared at him incredulously. " _Protect_ her?" he echoed. "Your relationship is already dangerous enough! _I_ was the one protecting her by telling her about you. How could you accuse me of being foolish when you continue to stay near her? You should never have associated with her in the first place!"

"I already _have_ ," the other man snapped.

"And that is unfortunate." Raoul stared hardly at Erik, shaking his head. "She needs to stay away from you— _you_ need to stay away from her."

"And what will you do, boy, if I don't?" Erik snarled.

Raoul opened his mouth heatedly to say something then shut it, blinking. He wasn't stupid—he knew that if he were to seek help from his family's position against the Phantom, the government would not blink an eye at him. They valued their precious assassin too much. Raoul could do nothing against him.

" _Think_ , boy, before you act," the older man growled, shaking his head. "Whatever you do, you will not receive help. Your precious _samizdat_ will not save you—yes, I know all about your connections with them—and neither will your father."

"My father—"

"Is a dangerous man who cares nothing for his enemies. Believe me, Chagny—I have had first-hand accounts at his viciousness."

Raoul shivered involuntarily, shaking his head. "What my father will or will not do," he bit his lip, "is not our main concern here. Our main concern is that you being near Christine is dangerous—"

"Yes," Erik agreed bluntly, "but it is too late to do anything about that. You may think your actions were noble—and I agree with you. It was _very_ noble for you to try and save Christine from me; how fancifully _heroic_ of you to do so. But have you considered that I kept this knowledge from her not to hide my true self from her, but to ensure that she would never _once_ be put in a situation that would threaten her safety?"

"She needed to know—"

"What she _needs_ is the guarantee of her safety!" Erik spit out. In a moment of pure frustration, he swore in a savage whisper, and Raoul saw just how agitated he was by the entire scene. The blonde sat dumbly by his bedside, watching blankly. He knew that his actions of revealing such information to Christine would be dangerous, but his priority was protecting her from _Erik_. Knowledge had always been power, to him—but too much knowledge could prove fatal, as well.

Raoul felt the blood leave his veins at the sudden realisation.

"You have tampered with _confidential information_ , Chagny," Erik hissed. "The government does not take kindly to that. You have always been prepared for the possibility of being exposed—but Christine? Do you think they would not _hesitate_ to dispose of her?"

Raoul blanched. "Dispose?" he repeated weakly. "You mean—but surely they wouldn't—she's innocent!"

"The KGB _doesn't care_ ," Erik bit out. He was fiery in his anger, golden eyes adding to the fuel. A spidery hand lifted and brushed itself through his hair, messing the neat style, and he took a deep, shaky breath. It was fascinating to see the Phantom in such a state—emotionally vulnerable, shaken, furiously angry. Raoul watched as he shut his eyes tightly, presumably struggling to regain his control.

"She deserved to know," he finally conceded, opening his eyes. The aggressive tone had been replaced by a quieter, defeated one, and Raoul shut his mouth abruptly, listening. "Yes, she deserved nothing of what I gave her. She deserved _more_ than what I gave her. She needed to know—but not like this. _Never_ like this."

Raoul shut his eyes tightly. He had sorted through his father's records, thinking that he was smart to discover the Phantom's elusive hiding place—but there was always the possibility of being followed, of being exposed. He had felt triumphant, victorious when he replayed each successful day of never being caught, gaining confidence as each endeavour of his went unnoticed.

His grip on the pistol beneath the pillow loosened slightly.

Of course Raoul knew that the government was not stupid. He had been careful in his work to uncover his father's documents, always waiting for the opportune moment to sneak into his study. He discovered the files of all sorts of men—family men, working men, orphaned men. Women, too, who had nothing to lose apart from their lives if they diverted from their line of work too much. The KGB were filled with elusive, cold members. Some chose to stay, some were forced to stay.

The agitated, struggling man in front of him was proof of that.

But Raoul's efforts had, in all essence, been genuine. He had truly believed that she was in danger from being associated with Erik. There was always the possibility, of course, that Erik may not have been loyal to the KGB—a possibility that Raoul now saw rang true. His intuition, however, had urged him to allow Christine the ability to decide for herself to leave her lover, and if she did not, then Raoul would try his best to make her see sense.

Now he saw that it was too late to take her away from Erik—they were too deeply intwined, too connected to be separated. Instead of giving Christine the chance to flee, he had now made her more dependant on Erik than ever. Christine still was not truly exposed to the nature of their government—she did not know who the true enemy was, and what they would do to her should Erik be compromised.

Raoul stared at the satin sheets draping over his knee. "You need to make sure she knows everything," he said quietly, refusing to look up. "She's confused; she doesn't know who to trust. If anything happens to her—"

He heard Erik's frustrated sigh. "I will protect her, as I always have," he said bluntly, without question.

"Christine is not so easily won over," Raoul said, a sudden irritation surging through him. "She won't just come back to you, trust you again. Whatever it is, I stand by my claim that she needed to know all this. I want the best for her, I always have. You were wrong to keep this from her." He paused, remembering Christine's tears, how she had sobbed in his arms. She had been devastated.

"I don't know if she still loves you," he continued, and Erik tensed slightly at his words, "but she won't accept your secrecy any longer. Christine has always been adamant on trust. She won't believe you if you don't give this to her, regardless of how she feels for you."

Erik regarded him expressionlessly. "She doesn't need to love me for me to protect her."

Raoul nodded, and sighed wearily. He suddenly felt tired and old, wishing that he had not been born in this country, that he was not as deeply entrenched into the politics as he was.

Perhaps then his life may have been simpler.

"Will she be alright?" he asked at last, needing some form of reassurance for her safety.

Erik inclined his head. "She is in no immediate danger at the moment," he divulged. "The KGB are not aware of her, and if she—" He broke off, pursing his lips. Raoul watched him carefully, and saw a hint of wistfulness in his eyes. His silent words rang loud and clear in the room.

 _If she chooses to stay with me_.

"They will not harm her if I do not go against them," he said finally, meeting Raoul's eyes with a hardened gaze.

"And if someone outside the KGB uses her to get to you?"

"They would not have the chance."

His words were cold and sharp, assertively stated. _He's a killer_ , Raoul reminded himself, suppressing a shudder. "Hurt her, and I _will_ find a way to kill you," he said warningly, knowing how feeble his words sounded against Erik's expertise.

The other man's lips twitched slightly. "Noted."

Raoul nodded, knowing that this was the only satisfaction he would get from the man. "Good. I think you can find your own way out." He reached for the bedside lamp, wishing to finally surrender to sleep.

"Chagny." His hand froze halfway, and he glanced up warily. Erik was watching him reservedly, now standing by the window he had surely entered from. "Don't meddle with what you don't understand," he told him warningly. "Your father, the _samizdat_ —leave it alone. You have no business in their affairs. Now is not the time."

"They run the country," Raoul objected. "That makes it my business."

"Perhaps, but the officials will go to large lengths to ensure their secrets remain." His eyes were luminescent, a burning whiskey in the soft light. "Your father included."

"You don't know that—"

"I do. Trust me, boy— _leave it alone_. Before you get yourself killed."

The room was suddenly bathed in darkness. Raoul scrambled out of bed and to the window, peering out into the moonlit night. He only saw the soft rain of snowflakes falling onto the ground, covering the city in white.

* * *

When Erik returned to his office a day later, he wasn't surprised to find a document neatly arranged on his desk. As always, the KGB wanted him to dispose of yet another enemy. His only negative thought, however, was that he would need to leave Christine behind—again—without the chance to answer her questions. And so soon, too.

Idly shrugging his coat off, he thought of how she might react. He would visit her home tonight to inform her that he would be leaving. Knowing Christine, she would protest and object, but he could not defy his employers if he wished to ensure her safety. It didn't matter if she was angry at him—as long as she didn't do anything rash, she would be safe.

He pondered if she would cry, knowing that he was off to kill someone else.

It was uncanny that the KGB would give him assignments dating close together, but not unheard of. It only showed that their matter was urgent—but then again, all their matters were to be treated urgently. Erik sighed irritably, cursing the government's unquenchable paranoia. He had been undeniably stressed—for once—at Christine's newfound knowledge of him, leaving him tired and surly. There had never been an instance where he had truly experienced stress, and he never wished to do so again. It was unnecessarily discomforting, and it clouded his judgement. He found himself wishing to sleep, though—a miracle in itself. It was a shame that he would not have an opportunity to do so.

He flipped the file open, expecting to be met with the stare of yet another balding old man who smoked too many cigars. But at the sight of the man in the picture he dropped it, his blood running cold.

The face of Raoul de Chagny stared expressionlessly up at him.

* * *

 **A/N:** Not much EC, yes, but bear with me here. And also to answer any questions: Christine is not in any immediate danger, Erik is just paranoid. And he complains about the _government_ being paranoid.

If you want a glimpse into my thought process while writing (mostly rambles, some songs that inspire me, etc) check out the **After The Storm** tag under my tumblr **halfwayreal**. Also the lovely  thelegitsoprano (thesoprano on AO3) has created a photo set for ATS! You can find this under my ATS tag, as well.


	8. Stoic Mind, Bleeding Heart

**A/N:** Once again, thanks for the lovely reviews, follows and favourites! They never fail to make my day and encourage me to keep writing.

I aim to update _at least_ once a week; if you don't see an update from me, don't hesitate to flood my inbox in protest. Also I'd like to point out that if you see any mistakes on my behalf, be it punctuation or something that doesn't settle right with you, please don't hesitate to let me know! I'm always seeking to do the best that I can by this fic, and value constructive criticism.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album _Sigh No More_. The song featured in this chapter is called  Reminder.

* * *

 _So I watched the world tear us apart,_

 _A stoic mind and a bleeding heart._

 _You never see my bleeding heart._

* * *

 _ **January 12, 1978**_

The knock on the door only revealed itself to be _him_.

Christine stared at the man in front of her, standing just outside her threshold, wrapped in his coat and gloves and scarf. His pale cheeks were flushed, golden eyes alert, hair damp with snow. A few strands clung to his forehead, and she fought the urge to reach out and brush it away.

Even when she was angry at him, he still managed to look positively endearing. She wanted to take him in her arms, to brush the frown away from his forehead.

He looked determinedly at her. "Christine—"

She began to shut the door in his face.

He let out a disgruntled noise and stopped the door from closing, reaching out a strong arm to hold the frame still. " _Christine_ ," he ground through gritted teeth, beautiful voice twisted in annoyance. He barely used any effort to hold the door, his muscles tensed but firm.

She bristled from his irritated tone. How _dare_ he have the audacity to sound cross?

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, fixing him a glare. A strand of hair fell over her face and she brushed it away impatiently, never once breaking her gaze. She needed to look strong—to look impenetrable.

"I need to talk to you."

She tried to push at the door frame but he was too strong; his arm steady, unrelenting. Her gaze fixed themselves on his biceps, vaguely visible through the thick form of the cloak. Those arms that had held her tightly in his grasp, sheltered her against him; poised themselves firmly on either side of her head as he gasped her name, moving above her, within her...

Christine shook her thoughts away firmly. _No_ , she told herself fiercely. _You're angry at him. You're_ angry _at him._

"I've already heard all I wanted to hear," she forced out through clenched teeth, letting her eyes betray nothing of her want for him. God, she hated him. Even now she felt his undeniable pull, magnetic and electric, wishing she could pull him towards her and press a hard kiss to his mouth.

 _He's a killer_ , she reminded herself, tensing rigidly under his piercing gaze, forcing herself not to drown in his eyes. _He's a killer, and a liar, and absolutely no good for you._

"I know, Christine, but you need to understand—"

"I understand _everything_."

"No, you don't."

Erik stared at her with a fixed resolve, his arm never faltering even as she pushed at the door. Again, she felt outraged at his confident answer. It only reminded her of how much she didn't know, how much she had missed about him. The sight of him repelled her: he was a forbidden jewel, a dark tsar, enticing and dangerous. He was Hades and she refused to become his Persephone.

Even if a small voice within her told her that such an outcome was inevitable.

She let out a frustrated sound and relented her hold on the frame, hoping to catch him off balance in order to slam it in his face. But instead of being distracted from her sudden relaxed stance like she hoped he would be, he straightened, letting his arm fall to his side. It infuriated her to see him so unaffected by her attempts.

"I want you to leave," she said stubbornly, folding her arms. She raised her chin, looking at him reservedly.

His lips twitched in a faint grin that didn't reach his eyes. "That's actually what I've been meaning to speak to you about."

She stared at him. "Wait—you're leaving?" she blurted out, his unexpected answer taking her by surprise.

Erik raised an eyebrow and she fought the urge to shudder under his electrifying gaze. God, _how_ could he be so alluring yet infuriating at the same time?

" _Now_ you're listening." He stepped forwards so that she was forced to move back, reluctant to find herself too close to him. She was too afraid of succumbing to him in body if not in mind, falling prey and ignoring his secrets, his lies. She could not trust him.

But her attempts to rid herself of him were in vain; he manoeuvred her easily and suddenly he was in her flat, the door shutting firmly behind them.

Christine felt a trace of panic, unwilling to be alone with him—not because she was afraid he would harm her; far from that. She knew all too well what closed doors meant for them; remembered how they cherished their privacy, recalling the sly, heated gaze he would give her whenever they found themselves alone in her flat together. A gaze that would lead to wandering hands, skin pressed to skin, unrestrained gasps. The memory of their passion burned her mind, sudden warmth flushing her cheeks.

Desperate to maintain their distance, she began to protest. "Meg—"

"—is away." He looked unwaveringly at her, again causing frustration to swell within her. Did he feel _nothing_ between them? Was he so unaffected by her?

"Don't think you can make me leave by telling me she's here, Christine," he continued, tone now condescending. "I saw her leave not ten minutes ago."

She grit her teeth together. It was clear that he wasn't about to leave—not until he had said his part. She was fighting a losing battle, her impatience and exasperation preventing her from properly chasing him away. "Fine," she relented, exhaling harshly as she ran a hand through her hair. She threw her arms in the air exasperatedly, fixing him a glare. "Explain."

Erik stepped forwards urgently, golden eyes boring into hers. "I need you to stop prying into this, Christine." He gripped her arm. "The KGB don't know about you, and I'd rather they didn't find out."

"And if they do?" she inquired, stepping backwards once more. She tried to tug her arm away, but he held her firmly.

His eyes narrowed. "They could use you to get to me," he said bluntly. She had to tilt her head to look at him, and with a jolt she realised just how closely he was standing to her, how she could feel his breath ghosting her lips, warm and heavy and _him_. "Our relationship—"

She bristled at his casual use of the word, remembering her anger once more, and interrupted harshly. "It's not a relationship," she barked. He stilled, and she took the opportunity to wrench her arm away, crossing both across her chest protectively. He was silent, his entire stance rigid and controlled. She didn't dare look into his eyes.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he spoke. "It doesn't matter to them," he said, voice slightly hoarse. It startled her, and her gaze immediately flitted up to his, catching sight of pained golden eyes, of thin lips tightly pressed together to keep from trembling. With one look, she saw all the love he held for her in his eyes, the hurt he felt at her simple statement of their ended affair. Five months of warmth and security, of devotion and happiness, of the deepest, most passionate love she had ever come to know—gone, with a simple sentence.

He exhaled shakily, and she willed herself not to feel, tensing her shoulders and standing straight. No, she would not allow him to affect her.

She would _not_.

"They don't care," Erik repeated, sounding as if he were struggling to regain himself. "It—it doesn't matter what we are or were, Christine. I have not maintained interactions with others for years _;_ they _will_ notice." He met her gaze warily, yet firmly. "Trying to find out more will only put you under their radar. Everything you wish to know, you can ask me—"

"How can I trust that you will tell me the truth?" she hissed. But even as her tone was vicious, her eyes were pleading, anguished. Betrayed.

He closed his eyes, and she could count the eyelashes that rested upon his cheek. They were delicate, she vaguely noticed, coloured slightly lighter than his hair.

"You have to," he said finally, opening his eyes once more. Golden eyes met cobalt, and she felt struck by his electric gaze. "Do you understand?" he asked quietly.

"Erik—"

"Do you _understand,_ Christine?"

She regarded him warily, nodding. "Yes."

"Good."

They melted into silence, each unwilling to breach the thick tension that now wafted through the air. It spoke of broken trust, of divided love and loyalty. She looked at this man—this man whom she had loved beyond all reason—with guarded eyes, stance poised defensively. His gaze was still, golden eyes still piercing into hers, but what was once unbridled passion was now a controlled hopelessness. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the dejection she now saw, plain and raw, bare before her eyes.

He still loved her; that was obvious. She could see the familiar flame he held for her—but the roaring fire had melted into a faint light, like a candle clinging onto its flame even as its wax melted. Part of her yearned to relent, to drop her shields and take him into her arms, sooth away his worries, tell him that everything would be the way it once was. That none of it mattered.

But then she remembered his secrets, his carefully guarded life. He lied to her, even if it was by omission. She recalled the eerie theatre, the haunting lake, the plain desk with a simple folder resting upon it. Raoul watching her, trying to conceal the obvious sympathy he held in his eyes as she grasped the documents with shaking hands. The grayscale photographs of men between the pages of a file, a clear tick by the margins to indicate their execution. Men he had disposed of while following the orders of their government—their dangerous, corrupt government.

She had trusted him with everything she had only to discover he had broken it before she had even offered him a smile.

"I know that what I've done is inexcusable," he uttered softly, as if he were reading her thoughts. "I know that you despise me for it, and I don't blame you. My word might not mean much to you, but I did mean what I said. I'll answer anything you ask. I will keep nothing from you, Christine."

Christine didn't respond, maintaining what she hoped to be an unreadable expression. She didn't want to look at him; the quiet defeat written on his face was making her chest ache. "Where are you going?" she asked instead, voice low and controlled.

Erik didn't meet her gaze. "They want me to come in."

Her eyes shot up to his. "What?" she asked in a whisper, feeling her throat drop into her stomach. A sudden panic shot through her bones, making the blood in her veins turn to ice.

A bitter voice in her mind told her that she should have expected this. He would not cease his duties simply because she had discovered his affiliation with the KGB. He would not stop killing just because she disapproved of it—not when the government ordered it of him. This much, she understood.

But that didn't prevent her from shaking her head, begging him with her eyes not to leave. She didn't _want_ the reality of what he did—of what he was about to do, should he leave. Her previous anger towards him suddenly fled her mind, replaced by a childish insistence that it didn't matter. She could help him out of this, ensure that no more blood was spilt by his hand; it didn't matter.

Even as she was silent he shook his head, already anticipating what she was about to say. "I must, Christine."

"Why?" she blurted out. It was a stupid question, she knew, but she _needed_ to keep him here— _needed_ to ensure that he didn't step foot outside that door, back to the government who used him just as they used everyone else.

A frown appeared across Erik's forehead. "You know why, Christine," he sighed, sounding exasperated. "The government is not to be trifled with. They will grow suspicious if I don't do this for them."

"I don't want you to," she said childishly.

"You don't have a choice."

His statement was sharp, blunt—and it slammed into her harshly, stealing her breath with the truth of the situation. She wanted to open her mouth to protest, but knew there was nothing she could say to change the fact that she was powerless in the face of the KGB. Her chest felt hollow at the knowledge that while Erik was not innocent, he was not entirely guilty, either.

Raoul's voice suddenly filled her mind, taking her back to one of the days when he had sat her down to fully explain what the _samizdat_ was. One declaration rang through her head.

 _Remember who the real enemy is, Christine._

Yes, Erik was wrong to keep such vital information from her. He had done much wrong in the world, performed acts that went against the basis of morality in his youth. But her bitterness towards him wouldn't change the KGB's paranoia and indifference when it came to disposing of threats. Christine could not hold him back even if he wanted her to. His involvement in the KGB might have been initially consensual, but his continued employment could not be altered without dire consequences.

And somehow, she knew that if he had a choice, he would not continue killing as he originally had. After all, could a person not change with time?

She looked up at him, cobalt orbs meeting gold. Even as their relationship was falling apart, Erik remained stoic and calm, body betraying none of the barely-concealed pain reflected in his eyes. She wished she could be as strong; she had to bite her bottom lip to keep it from trembling, and she felt faint, as if she could collapse at any given moment.

"I want you to make two promises to me," she said quietly, holding his gaze with her own. He nodded wordlessly, still as ever.

"First, stay safe."

"I always do, Christine."

"And the second—" It was unwise, she knew, to ask this of him once more, but she needed to see him safe and whole, to ensure that he was not hurt when he returned. She knew all too well that assignments such as these were risky, and while Erik was highly skilled, he too was vulnerable to unexpected danger. She took a deep breath. "Come and see me, when you're back."

He held her gaze for a moment, eyes betraying a flicker of surprise. She watched him carefully, tense with agitation at what he might say.

And then, slowly, he nodded. "I will," he vowed.

* * *

The Chagny household was quiet when Erik slipped inside that night. The house was huge; a mausoleum of luxury. Black boots soundlessly padded across the corridors, carpeted in lush Persian rugs. Gloved fingers idly brushed the lavish wallpaper as he walked, tracing the elaborate designs of Madame de Chagny's preferences. Yellow eyes scanned the hall behind a full-faced mask, narrowed and sharp, absorbing every detail. Moonlight glimmered faintly down the darkened hallway yet never touched the man—he was a silent shadow, a predator on the prowl, unseen even in the shimmer that bathed the path in a faint, cold glow.

The layout of the mansion was one he had committed to memory. Yes, he knew that the Chagny sisters slept to the right, the master bedroom further down the corridor. If he were to walk straight ahead, he would find two paths: one that led to the spiral staircase that revealed a richly decorated living room, the other leading to the library. At the very end of that path were Philippe and Raoul de Chagny's bedrooms.

He silently took the path.

The house was quiet; eerie, almost. He had visited many times before to consult with the head of the family, yet even his fellowship with darkness didn't rid him of the uneasiness that slithered through his veins, coiling around his blood whenever he stepped foot into the house. The lavish furniture only added to this disquiet. It was subtly sinister, a temple of marble disguised as heaven.

He treaded onwards.

The last time he had come, he had ventured through the window to ensure he would not be detected. The eldest Chagny was always alert in all aspects save for his children's' lives, and Erik was unwilling to alert him to his presence. But Raoul would notice if he should use the window again, and he had needed an element of surprise to his kill. Tonight, the guards slept on, unsettlingly absent-minded. Chagny had taken the liberty to ensure the Phantom could enter undetected, without a doubt. Outside, snow fell onto the already thickly-covered roads, adding layers upon layers of white upon the ground. The other dwellings in the neighbourhood were still, its inhabitants lost in deep sleep. It was as if he were the only one awake, performing his sin in the pure, white night while others slept on, oblivious and uncaring.

Except for her.

Since Christine had discovered his secret, Erik had found himself hesitating for the first time when seeing the file resting upon his desk. For the first time, he had felt regret for his stolid boyhood. Acts of theft and manipulation were always regarded as a means for survival; killing soon joined the list when he had settled in the Soviet Union. He had never regarded other lives as important—he had never cared enough to do so.

But his Christine—she had compassion, she had kindness. She had been horrified—disgusted, even—at the way he had lived, instructing him to leave her presence as soon as he had revealed his impassive story, and rightly so. He wasa monster to humanity. Moral codes were dismissed and silently executed in favour of—of what, exactly? Ruthlessness? A lack of pity? Or simply the pleasure of rebelling against purity and innocence, when they had been so savagely ripped from him at a young age?

He'd had no purpose, no _direction_ before her. Without direction, came the indifference towards ethicality. He had been aimless, a mere _boy_ who never cared for anyone including himself. But since she had entered his life, he suddenly found clarity.

He wanted to be a good man for her, and for the first time in his life, he found himself bound by the very organisation that had vaguely appealed to him in his youth.

And now he was in the home of her childhood friend, on the way to end his life.

He walked quietly on, alert for any sudden movements, blending soundlessly into the shadows.

 _Phantom_.

He detested and prized the title. There was nobody akin to him in the KGB—it was the sole reason they had hired him. He was quick, efficient, clean. Never missing a target, never allowing one to escape. If someone was wanted dead, they would be dead.

And yet he lived as a ghost; never seen, never felt. It was an existence he had never realised was lonely until he had tangled himself in Christine. She had unknowingly become his salvation, and he was desperate to cling onto her even if she clearly despised him.

Others knew him as ruthless, soulless. Erik knew himself for what he truly was: weak.

If he were stronger, perhaps he would have tried to break away from the KGB for Christine. Forged documents, created a new identity, taken her and fled to Indonesia where he could be someone she deserved. Perhaps he would have been sensible enough to resist her, foreseen the complications that would surely arise. Perhaps he would have considered letting Raoul de Chagny go upon seeing his picture on the document he was given.

He couldn't bring himself to tell her, when he had gone to see her. He couldn't bear to add to her growing list of reasons to despise him, knowing that there was no returning from killing her childhood friend. He would forever be hated by her, could never again earn her forgiveness should she find out.

A selfish part of him wanted to keep this from her. Perform the kill, but never confess. Raoul would soon be revealed as dead and Christine would cry, but he could keep this secret forever should he want to. She would never have to know.

Words he had uttered only hours ago echoed through his mind.

 _I will keep nothing from you, Christine._

And just like that, he knew that he couldn't lie to her again.

Noiseless boots padded down the hall, leaving soft footfalls in the rugs that would soon disappear with time.

It was when he approached the door of the library that Erik stopped. The door was slightly ajar, warm light pouring gently from the crack. The elaborate design of the Persian carpets were softly illuminated, revealing ornate swirls and twists of colour and design. The faint sounds of a grandfather clock could be heard, loud and echoing.

 _Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

Someone was awake. He cursed internally; it would make his task more risky. Doable, but risky. Why hadn't Chagny secured the entire house? He didn't want more casualties than needed, but if he was forced to, they would have to be terminated.

The KGB would not allow for anything else.

Quietly, he inched forwards, careful never to step within the range of light. Ensuring he could not be observed, he listened to the heavy footfalls of the inhabitant, the deep clearing of throat, the cough that was too rough to be considered feminine.

One of the Chagny men, then. He wondered if it was Raoul. If it _was_ the boy, it would make his task more difficult. Erik always valued the privacy of a bedroom; to sleep in, and to be put to sleep. The library would provide more chances of being caught.

 _Of all nights_ , he thought to himself, sighing irritably under his breath. Timing his moments, he quickly chanced glancing into the room.

The man stood with his back to the door, facing a fireplace. But even as the fire blazed with warmth, the orange light of the flames leant to a sinister glow, a glimpse of the underworld hidden in the rich home. A velvet armchair was positioned next to him, an opened book perched upon its arm. His hair was streaked with grey, back straight and rigid. A silken robe was clad about his form, tied lazily around his waist. Woollen slippers covered his feet.

All thoughts of doubt fled Erik's mind, replaced by the cool, calculated indifference he had perfected over the years. "Monsieur de Chagny," he murmured, lips twisting into a wry smile behind his mask.

The man whirled around, alarmed at the sudden voice that filled the room. He pressed a quick hand to his chest, the other disappearing under his robe, doubtlessly reaching for a pistol. Once he saw his assailant, however, he let out a breath of relief that soon turned into irritation.

"Couldn't have warned me of your presence, man?" he snarled, withdrawing his hand from underneath the robe once more.

"It would take away the theatrical element of a dramatic entrance, Monsieur," Erik replied smoothly, pushing the door open and shutting it behind him.

Léonard de Chagny huffed, crossing his arms. If he was in any way uneasy being alone with the Phantom, he did not show it. "I thought I made it clear that I am _not_ to be addressed by that title."

"My apologies, sir." The masked man casually walked forwards, idly brushing the polished wood of a mahogany desk. Long fingers slid over the smooth surface. "I would have thought you would be familiar with the formalities of your own homeland," he commented, knowing that the man was in no ways aware that he too hailed from the same land.

"Not anymore," Chagny said warningly.

"Of course not," Erik said dryly. "We would not want to reinstate links to the West, after all."

A thick tension hung through the air, his bitterness of the Soviet system concealed by sarcasm. The older man eyed him with narrowed eyes, crossing his arms. "Why are you here, Erik?" he said gruffly. Chagny had never once learnt the surname he had adopted; he had made sure of it. After all, few would connect the Phantom Erik to Erik Destler, which would make it less likely for them to discover Erik Devereux.

In turn, Erik mirrored his stance, folding strong arms across his chest. "Why ask when you know the answer?" he returned. If he wasn't wearing the mask, Chagny would have seen his eyebrow raised in dubiety.

Chagny frowned, wrinkles working across his forehead. "My son is asleep," he told Erik, "in his room. I've made sure of it."

"I do not doubt it." Erik watched the man silently, regarding him carefully. He made no move to leave the room.

"Then what are you waiting for?" Chagny waved an arm impatiently, gesturing in the direction of the door. "My family is asleep as well. I will make sure nobody arises until morning. I want his death to be quick and soundless. Don't leave marks of strangulation upon his throat; nothing to signify that he was killed."

"Murdered, you mean."

Chagny narrowed his eyes at the masked man. "Yes," he said shortly.

Erik nodded slowly, golden eyes glittering dangerously. "You want me to stage a scene of your son's suicide." He made no attempts to conceal the disgust dripping from his tone; ordering the death of one's own son was repulsive, even to a soul as far gone as his.

Again, Chagny stated, "Yes."

The clock chimed, signifying an hour past midnight. The sound echoed around the large, quiet room, bounding eerily off the walls. The fire crackled on, filling the silence.

When Erik didn't speak, he continued. "I discovered his affiliation with those underground rebels. All this while, he has been feeding them information—information I have kept carefully guarded from all but my fellow colleagues." He met Erik's gaze, blue eyes hard. "He must be disposed of."

"He is your son," Erik responded coldly.

Chagny snorted, shaking his head. "What is this, _Phantom_?" he sneered, glaring at him with Raoul's eyes. But where Raoul's were a blue as light as the sky, Léonard's were icy and cold, a freezing winter behind closed lids. "Going soft, are we? Regardless of if he is my son or not, he has violated the security of our _nation_. He could expose all of us—including you." Narrowing his eyes, he regarded Erik cooly. There was no flicker of remorse, no sudden hesitation or doubt. "Kill him," he hissed.

Instantly, Erik hardened, stoically scrutinising the older man. There was no doubt that Léonard de Chagny was a cruel man. Erik may have been the executioner, but Léonard was the man who would _order_ said executions. From families to single men, the senior Chagny would never fail to rid himself of the Soviet Union's threats—threats based on paranoia and the fear of a revolution, of an uprising. He wanted no challenges—nothing to disrupt their system of obedience.

Yet Erik had expected hesitance when such a threat revealed itself to be from his own son.

"I never said I would refuse," Erik said softly, golden eyes watching him carefully, looking for a hint of guilt, of remorse.

"Then be done with it." Chagny turned away, facing the fireplace once more. His voice hardened to a gruff tone. "I want him dead by morning, Phantom. Don't fail me."

Erik lingered for a moment, observing the older man. From a fleeting glance, one would see a powerful man contemplating his fireplace, back straight and rigid, draped in the finest of silk that melted into the swirling colour of red wine, rich and strong. His greying hair lent him an air of authority, of wisdom that could only come with age. He stood as a rigid king, a calm dictator.

Yet his arms lay by his sides, fists clenched tightly—almost painfully. They shook slightly from the tight way he held himself. It was the only sign of tension that emitted from his form.

"Go, Erik." His voice was quiet, almost drowned by the warm crackling of fire within the room. His head bowed, and when he sighed, his shoulders shook slightly.

As silently as he had come, Erik left the room, making his final trek to his victim's chamber.

The bed was empty, and Raoul was nowhere to be found.

* * *

The engine rang loudly, deafening and vicious. In the dead of the night the train travelled on, moving forwards as its passengers slept on, shifting uncomfortably in their straight-backed seats. Some slept with their families, some sitting alone. A child rested his head upon his father's lap, dozing with an open mouth, letting out soft snores every so often.

A lone figure sat in an empty compartment, staring out of the window. In the darkness he was clouded in shadow, his form shrouded and black. He wore a hat that covered his features from view, a coat that hid his frame. By his feet was a single satchel, plain and anonymous.

The tracks twisted, the train turning to follow, and moonlight descended upon the man. Vague hints of light hair could be seen under his hat, positioned low over his face. His lips were aristocratic; the bottom full and supple, the top thinner and arched into a Cupid's bow. His jaw was straight and prominent, chin softly curving and creating a chiseled look. He sat with a straight back even as he leaned against the seat, tired and weary.

The door to the compartment opened and another man stepped in—this one slightly shorter. His face was not covered by a low-rimmed hat, and through the moonlight vague sets of coffee-coloured curls could be seen, messily covering his head. His eyebrows were thick, lips slightly too full, eyes set widely apart.

He sat opposite the cloaked man, leaning back against the chair. Resting his arm against the windowsill, he followed the man's gaze outwards, following the planes and roads of Moscow, slowly being left behind.

"It was necessary, Raoul," he said quietly, watching the young man carefully.

Raoul looked up, revealing remorseful light blue eyes. He looked exhausted—large eye bags, pale complexion, lines creasing his forehead. "I know," he murmured, resuming to stare out of the window.

"You would have been killed," the other man continued.

"I know."

The two men lapsed into silence. The vague sounds of crying could be heard from the outside, and someone shouted something rude in a thick, sleep-clouded voice. The first man chuckled.

"Where shall we go?" he asked finally, turning to look back at Raoul.

"As far as possible," the light-haired man answered, still looking out of the window. "Out of the country, if we can."

"We don't have passports."

"We'll improvise."

"Raoul, this is impossible. Surely your father—"

"My father doesn't give a damn about me, Nikolai," Raoul interrupted sharply, eyes flashing. His entire stance had stiffened, and he sat rigidly on his seat, feigned calm having rapidly disappeared. His lips twisted bitterly. "He never has. And if we've got the Phantom on our trail, we have to move—and fast."

He glared at his companion, daring him to object. Nikolai sighed.

"I'm just trying to be logical here, Raoul," he said, leaning an elbow against the windowsill. "We don't have any identification to get us across the border. We need to find another way—some way to get us legal access—"

"We can't," Raoul exhaled, regarding him exasperatedly. Fixing Nikolai a hard gaze, he lowered his voice. "We are wanted criminals, now," he said gravely. "Both of us for our association to the _samizdat_. If we seek help, others will trace the trail back to us. I don't wish to expose our friends, Nikolai." He turned back to look out of the window. "No, we're on our own. We'll find a way."

"But, Raoul—"

"We'll find a way."

Nikolai pursed his lips, regarding the blonde man carefully. Not a day ago he was safe, a brother within the walls of what he assumed to be a loving family, a caring father. Within a few hours he had discovered his father's plan to oust him and immediately made arrangements to run. His caring father, loving family—gone, with a simple scan of documents upon a desk, staring wide-eyed at a scribble upon its margins.

Nikolai was the second man on the hit list. It was fortunate that Raoul had time to bring him along—if he hadn't, Nikolai would surely have been killed by now.

Raoul had seemed deranged when Nikolai had opened his front door to reveal the man. Wild-eyed, jittery, paranoid—all to hide his disbelief that his own father would order his death, that his family would expose him in such a way. He had truly believed that even if he was to be arrested, his family would save him. That they loved him enough to sacrifice their beliefs to gain his life.

In the few short others where they had located a train and boarded it, Raoul had transformed from the agitated boy to a rigid man, stoic and distrusting, hardened by betrayal.

Nikolai was not as easily affected. Unlike Raoul, he had no family—none who cared for him, anyway. He had been prepared to lose everything at the slightest chance if he were to be ousted. He had been taken aback when Raoul had urged him to run, but not surprised.

Knowing that Raoul could not be moved, Nikolai leaned back against his seat, sighing. "Where is the train headed?" he asked, uncomfortable with the silence that Raoul seemed to suddenly favour.

Without taking his eyes away from the passing roads, Raoul answered, "Dmitrov."

"And then?"

"Like I said: we improvise. The Phantom is an experienced master assassin; he will track us down. We need to leave the country—our best bet is to Finland."

"We could take the train straight to St Petersburg."

"No; we need to shake him off our trail. Be unpredictable."

Raoul lapsed into silence, and Nikolai let out a breath. He vaguely recalled the map of the Soviet Union in his mind, trying to determine safer locations. "We could go to Cherepovets, then," he offered after a while. "It's out of the way, but not too off-track. He would not expect us to go there."

Raoul paused, seeming to consider his proposal. "No, he wouldn't," he agreed, sounding thoughtful.

Once again, he settled into silence—a silence Nikolai found too uncomfortable to dwell in. He contemplated venturing outside to light a cigarette, but knew that his companion would disapprove and order him to stay within the confinements of their compartment. It was too dangerous to risk anyone identifying them, but he was itching to move about, to explore the train for what it was worth— _anything_ to rid himself of this restlessness he felt in his bones.

But again, Raoul would disapprove of such a thing, wanting to maintain their privacy. So with a long-suffering sigh, Nikolai settled comfortably against the seat and leaned his head against the window. "Wake me up when we arrive," he grumbled towards Raoul.

It was surprising to hear his companion's startled laugh. "You won't have a restful sleep, then, my friend," was all he said in return, before he crossed his arms and pulled his hat lower over his head. Nikolai could no longer tell if he was looking out of the window or not, but shrugged it off, closing his eyes.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

Light poured through the window, illuminating the room in a soft glow. The polished wood of the coffee table shone, glimmering in the sunlight. Outside, the once white street had melted into a soft, chilly breeze, the roads no longer caked in snow, the skies clear and bright.

Erik shifted on the sofa he slept on, grunting uncomfortably. The cushions beneath his back were too hard, creating an irritating ache in his spine. Knowing he would no longer be able to catch up on his sleep, he opened his eyes, blinking them to adjust to the brightness. He sat up slowly, grimacing at the soreness of his limbs.

He had woken later than usual, today. Usually, he would have been up at the crack of dawn, unwilling to sleep for longer than necessary. When he had moved to the sofa, his already limited hours of sleep had dropped significantly; it was impossible to fit himself onto the confined space. Admittedly it was quite large, but Erik would always wake with an arm or leg hanging off the edge, unable to fit itself into the limited space of the sofa. Christine had offered him their bed after a week of them sleeping apart, but he had immediately declined, unwilling to think of his angel being subjected to the uncomfortable sofa.

He _had_ slept through worser conditions, after all. A stiff sofa should not be a problem for him.

With a grunt, he sat up on the sofa. Sleeping in was strange for him. Often he would find himself plagued by his memories in his sleep—either from his past, or from _there_ —and could not return to sleep for hours at a time. Yet last night he had slept completely peacefully, a dreamless sleep that left him feeling oddly rejuvenated. Strange, but not unwelcome.

He pushed his blankets aside and rose from the sofa. Stretching his limbs brought a pleasant relief to the stiffness of his bones, and he let out an appeased breath. Bending, he picked up the blankets he had used and folded them, neatly placing them onto the seat as he did so.

Once he had rearranged the cushions, Erik crossed the room and walked down the hall. It was quiet, as it always was in the mornings; Christine treasured her sleep. Before, he had enjoyed trailing kisses against her spine, shoulder—lower—to wake her. She would always squirm and protest, but the smile she would give him was radiant as it was sleepy.

Christine cherished her sleep, but she had cherished him even more. As he approached the bathroom he glanced at their closed bedroom door, unrelenting and coldly denying him entry. Idly, he reasoned that he should have felt a pang at the reality of their strained marriage, but none came. There was only a resolved numbness, a cruel acceptance of inevitability.

Silently he made his way towards the door to the connecting bathroom and slipped inside.

He performed his usual morning rituals: brushing teeth, washing hands, lightly rinsing his hair. As always he changed his bandages, dabbing at mangled flesh with water and padding it clean. But the flesh that was once red and sore had now healed, wounds closed and distorted skin firm. It felt unusual to forgo the antiseptics. The bandages, instead of binding his wounds now bound his scars, hiding his shame from the world.

Christine would urge him to take them off if she knew he was fully healed. She would insist that it didn't matter, that he shouldn't have to cover his scars in front of her. That many soldiers had suffered similar—or worse—fates.

But he was not prepared for her disgust, for her repulsion which would surely come regardless of what she would say to deny it. She was already bitter towards him on a daily basis—there was no need to add fuel to the flame.

Ever since they had started sleeping apart, Erik felt them drifting further away from each other. What was once a trusting relationship based on need and devotion was now one of unsure silences and awkward glances, each one hesitant to cross the invisible barrier they had unintentionally built between them. It was sad, if he thought about it; they had once been the very image of love, having overcome every obstacle that had been thrown their way.

And then he had left and returned as a demented man, and they had slowly started to fall apart.

Their daily routine had not changed. As always, Erik would rise before she did and make her breakfast. As always, Christine would wake just in time to hastily eat what he had prepared for her before she needed to leave for the theatre. Since the Bolshoi had put up their newest production, Christine had been busier than ever, even if she had been promised a longer break. Oftentimes Anton would summon her even if she was not due to perform that day, needing her help around the theatre. Christine had frequently complained about this when they sat together for dinner, but he somehow suspected she was secretly grateful for an excuse to be away.

No, their routine had remained constant. Instead, it was the air around them that had changed. No longer did she offer him casual touches or brushes of fingers along his arm. She would no longer fiddle with his collar, straightening it even if he had already done so himself. The smiles she spared him no longer reached her eyes. When she spoke to him, her voice was an imitation of the pleasant warmth that had once laced her tone, sweet and honest, always making him feel as if he were home.

He wondered when she would finally come to her senses and leave him.

He found himself in the kitchen as he always did, toasting some bread for her. He had heard muffled sounds of her changing through the door that led to their bedroom, and had hastened to wrap his bandages around his head before leaving the bathroom free for her use. She had woken late just as he had, but was now faced with the challenge of dressing for the theatre in a shorter time than she usually would.

The thought of her rushing about should have brought a fond smile to his lips.

Would have.

Sure enough, the door to their bedroom opened loudly, signalling that Christine had emerged. The bread popped out of the toaster, warm and crunchy. He removed them and settled them on a plate, before proceeding to spread butter over the surface.

He looked up as she entered the kitchen. Her hair was still messy from sleep, her face devoid of make up. She was in the process of zipping up her jacket as she walked in, eyes wide and alert. Even when completely frazzled, she was as beautiful as ever.

"It's fifteen minutes to nine!" she exclaimed breathlessly, blue eyes meeting his. He nodded towards the glass of water that lay silently on the counter in front of her, and she took it gratefully, gulping it down. Once she was done, she wiped her lips with her sleeve. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Erik shrugged, finishing buttering the toast. "I woke up late, too."

"Oh," was all she said. She took the plate he offered her with a murmured, "Thank you," and folded the bread in half, taking large bites. He noticed that she didn't come to stand beside him as she usually would.

The room was silent apart from her chewing and his clearing of the counters. Once she was done, she swallowed and sighed. "Thank you, Erik," she said once more, and gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes before she quickly walked out of the kitchen.

It was only moments later that he heard the front door shut.

Erik leaned against the counter, sighing wearily. Their marriage was falling apart, and he was at a loss of what to do. Yes, he was aware that he should not have separated their sleeping arrangements in the first place—that it had played a pivotal role in driving a wedge between them. But he _couldn't_ bring himself to lay next to her, not when scenes from his cursed days _there_ played behind his eyelids as he slept only inches away from her. Such violence should not be in the presence of such an innocent angel.

It was not that he didn't want to fix this break between them—it was that he didn't know _how_. How could he, when he rarely heard her tell him that she loved him? What was once a daily saying between them had now melted into a painfully loud silence. She didn't speak of mending things between them, didn't mention wanting to help him heal anymore. She merely allowed him to do what he wanted with his time, quietly moving out of his way.

 _"I don't want to feel like I'm walking on eggshells around you."_

 _"You don't have to."_

 _"I already do."_

A part of him felt as their separation was inevitable. After all, their union had not been natural. She, a pure, golden saint joined with _him_ , a ruthless killer? They were polar opposites in so many ways, and he had always wondered at why they had fallen in love when they should not have.

But the part of him that loved him with his entire being—that still held a candle to her flame, still brimmed with restrained passion beneath the surface—fiercely opposed her leaving him. Despite his pessimistic outlook on their relationship, he still held onto hope: hope that they would overcome this obstacle, just as they had done so many times before. A part of him _wanted_ her to heal him, _wanted_ to confess what had happened in Afghanistan.

 _Afghanistan_. The mere thought of the country made his blood run cold, leaving him as white as parchment. His blood pounded in his ears, and he could feel the breath rushing out of his lungs.

 _"Erik! Quickly now_ — _we don't have time."_

The voice seemed to come from far away, but this was not the sinister, spitting voice that had frequently plagued his dreams. It was a voice that had tormented him more so.

 _Warm water upon his skin, and then more pain. He drifted in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, he screamed. They were pressing into the wounds on his face. They were torturing him, but he didn't care anymore_ ; _the image of Christine wasn't enough. He wanted it over_ — _he wanted to die. He told them he wanted to die._

 _His mind was hazy, when he awoke. It was difficult to determine what was real and what wasn't. A brown-skinned woman hovering over him with concerned grey eyes, raven hair covered by a shawl. A boy staring at him from a stool, a broth of soup clutched in his hands. Familiar hazel eyes, ever watchful, ever attentive._

 _They burned themselves into his memory_.

Erik gasped, eyes flying open and darting about the room frantically. No, he was not there—he was here, in his and Christine's living room, reliving a memory he didn't wish to keep.

The sharp stab of pain that had haunted him incessantly before suddenly returned, slamming into his body mercilessly. He almost wished he could have relived his physical pain, for this was far worse; the pain of helplessness, of failure. It attacked his cells, suffocating him with a force that choked the air from his lungs, made the air thin around him.

No, he couldn't think about this. He needed a distraction.

Suddenly struck with an idea, Erik looked out of the window. It was bright, the skies clear. The street stalls would be out by now, and Christine always enjoyed her stall food. Yes, that would serve as the perfect distraction—venturing outside for the first time since his return to purchase his angel's favourite snacks. His anxiety would be transferred onto maintaining calm as he walked amongst others, innocently traipsing as they did their shopping, unaware that they walked amongst a killer, a hideous, deformed man who couldn't face himself.

It sounded so repulsively perfect that he immediately rushed towards the bedroom in search of his coat, eager to flood himself with social distress rather than the memories that haunted him.

Christine would be so pleased with him when she returned. He would have overcome his fear of leaving their flat, something she had urged him to do countless times before. She would smile at him with her eyes when he informed her of what he had done; he'd lap up the praise she would give him like a starving animal. He would show her that he was alright, that things could be the way they once were, and she would take him into her arms again and hold him until he fell asleep.

He was struggling to banish the painful reminder of his failure from his mind, desperately recalling Christine's pleased smile to distract himself, that he didn't notice he was facing the front door until he stopped in front of it.

Instantly, all thoughts of Christine and Afghanistan fled his mind.

The door stared at him as he stared at it, tall and intimidating. The paint was wearing off at some places, the doorknob slightly rusty. The hinges needed to be oiled; surely they would creak when he opened it.

He felt his heart drop to his stomach. There was nothing in his mind apart from him and the door, a barrier to the world outside, to the world that had denied him for so long. Opening it would bring back the normalcy he so desperately craved, to live amongst the people once more.

He lifted his hand and rested it upon the doorknob, fingers slowly grasping it in his palm.

And then fear struck him. People, walking on the streets, stopping to stare at him with their perfect faces, their full noses and unmarred flesh. They stared unabashedly, eyes tracing the bandage he wore, silently wanting to see what he hid beneath it. And suddenly his protection was gone, and they looked upon his scarred flesh, fixed disgusted gazes upon his missing skin, his protruding veins.

 _I want you to look in the mirror and remember what you used to have._

He was not like them. _They_ had marked him, scarred him, ensured that he would remain repulsive his entire life. The image of others screaming, running from him in fear and revulsion as he descended upon the street engulfed his thoughts. With chaotic screams, their full faces fled from him until there was only one left.

He lifted his head to meet Christine's revolted gaze, a hand pressed to her mouth as she shuddered in disgust. There was no love in her eyes, no acceptance—only fear and loathing, unrestrained and plain for him to see.

And then she too turned from him, and walked away.

His mind slammed back into his body, and he withdrew his hand from the doorknob as if he had been burnt. He stepped backwards, eyeing the door warily.

He never made it outside.

* * *

 **A/N:** What are you thinking? Leave a review and let me know!

If you want a glimpse into my thought process while writing (mostly rambles, some songs that inspire me, etc) check out the **After The Storm** tag under my tumblr **halfwayreal**. Also the lovely  thelegitsoprano (thesoprano on AO3) has created a photo set for ATS! You can find this under my ATS tag, as well.


	9. Nightmares

**A/N:** Thanks for all the favourites, follows and reviews—they keep me and this story going.

Some terms may be unfamiliar to you readers, so here's to clarify:

The **Afghan** (opposing) army can be referred to as the _mujahideen_ and the _Dukhi_.

The **Soviet** army can be referred to as the _Red Army_.

The **search and destroy** strategy is one of deploying forces into hostile territory, searching out the enemy, destroying them, then withdrawing immediately.

More about all these tactics and explanations about the armies on my tumblr, **halfwayreal**.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album _Sigh No More_.

* * *

 _You can never… hate someone who sang you to sleep like that, can you?… You can feel angry and betrayed, but some part of you will always love them for being there… for giving you a place to run where your nightmares couldn't follow, the one place where you could descend finally into slumber knowing, at least for the time being, that you were… safe_.

—Jonathan Tropper, _Everything Changes_

* * *

 _ **June 1980**_

The tent was scorching, as always, when Erik entered.

Conditions were growing worse for the Soviet army. The weather was growing warmer by the second since he had been conscripted in February, and more soldiers were growing weary from the heat than from battle. If there happened to _be_ a battle, that was.

The mujahideen were inconspicuous. It was almost impossible to track them down, since they had vast knowledge of the terrains and how to navigate the mountains. Their initial tactics of search and destroy had failed; raiding villages had revealed nothing of the whereabouts of their enemy. Intimidating the villagers did nothing to reveal the location of the mujahideen, and the Red Army were suffering from wasted effort.

They had thought that importing the most proficient spy of the KGB would have been more useful, but Erik often found himself as lost and frustrated as the rest of the generals. He had been essential in uncovering villages concealing the mujahideen, but once their men were situated in the villages, they would come across empty camps, hints of abandoned military gear. Four months of this, and it was driving him insane. Never before had he come across a more proficient enemy than the mujahideen.

The soldiers called them the _Dukhi_ —the ghosts who vanished with the faintest hint of a trace, never tangible enough to track. It was like reaching for an iron rod only for it to dissolve before his fingertips. The _Dukhi_ were smoke, clouds, gas. It was almost as if they were searching for a mischievous poltergeist that didn't want to be found, expertly disappearing and reappearing at their own will, taunting the exhausted Soviets to come closer with a wicked, malicious smile.

Erik briskly walked the short distance towards the elevated surface that served as a desk, brushing the hair away from his sweat-slicked forehead as he did so. He whipped out a rolled up scroll before spreading it across the makeshift desk, smoothening out the creases of the paper. Quick sketches filled the papers, outlining the general terrain of their area, marking the rough spots that should bear their enemy's camps. They occupied cities, but they held the support of the people. Sometimes he wondered if it was truly necessary for the government to insist on a war that was not worth fighting.

But then he remembered the thirty million Muslims in the USSR that could surely form a rebellion if the mujahideen won control over Afghanistan. A rebellion that would cause dissident chaos in the Soviet Union, that would make their country collapse. The threat of extremists looming over them, even if this was exaggerated by their government who only wanted to gain access to the Indian Ocean.

And even if he was against his government, the way his country was run, Erik didn't desire to watch it crumble.

His brow furrowed as he bent over the makeshift desk, studying the landscape of Bagram. The generals had insisted upon deploying him here instead of in the capital city—Kabul was still an economic centre, and wasn't as threatened as the other major cities of Afghanistan. It was ideal, in a way: Kabul was only sixty kilometres south of Bagram, allowing him to keep a close eye on the capital city should a sudden crisis arise. His eyes traced over the mountainous areas, the rough terrains of the ground. Hasty scribbles showed directions of the forests, where the city ended and began, villages that lay towards the side.

Once again, he would be subjected to track down enemies that were not his. Exploit his skills, his knowledge, his quick intelligence for the benefits of others. Forced to act in the name of his country, even if such a name was sullied beyond compare.

He suppressed the urge to chuckle bitterly.

Erik remembered with a sharp clarity the last time he had truly hunted. A grey-haired man with furious blue eyes, barking to _find him and kill him_. Studying the train schedule, monitoring roads, threatening others suspected to know of their whereabouts. Going months on end on their trail, only to lose them unsuspectedly when he was just within reach. Travelling away from Moscow, away from _her_ , unable to do so much as give her a call, knowing that she might not choose to speak to him even if he tried.

Yes; Raoul de Chagny had proved to be a difficult man to track down. Erik had been both frustratingly angry and secretly, surprisingly relieved at this.

It was the only assignment he had failed, in the eyes of the government. But in _her_ eyes, he had not failed. No, he had returned to her, unscathed and steely, prepared for her rejection once more when he told her of what they had wanted him to do. He remembered what she had looked like that day—coffee-coloured curls pinned up in a bun when she answered the door, a loose sweater hanging off shoulders, cobalt eyes bright and wide, rosy lips parted in surprise.

And then the sighing, sweet caress of his name leaving her lips in a breathless rush.

The sound of the tent flap being pushed aside snapped him out of his thoughts, and he whipped his gaze upwards, usual scowl once more replacing his softened expression that arose whenever he thought of his Christine. He straightened as General Vetrov entered, fully dressed for combat as always. Sharp grey eyes landed on him, lips curling unpleasantly. He approached, and even in his stocky frame Erik could sense the iron power he held, a force of thunder within the steely muscle and stern expression.

"Did you find anything?" Vetrov questioned. An overcoat covered his uniform, and Erik vaguely wondered how he wasn't melting in the sweltering heat.

Fingers idly tapped the papers that served as a blueprint. "The mujahideen are a cunning man," Erik answered, rolling the words easily off his tongue, deliberately stalling. There was hardly any sources of amusement within the camp, and Vetrov was easily irritated. It often brought a degree of smugness to Erik whenever he rattled the general so thoroughly.

Vetrov huffed impatiently. "Do you have anything we _don't_ already know, or are you intent on wasting my time?"

"Tempting, but no."

"So you've found something—"

"Perhaps."

The general grumbled something about working with shitheads like these, and Erik resisted the urge to smirk. Vetrov was always a serious man, and combined with Erik's general dislike for others, proved to be an comical source of entertainment.

But Vetrov would soon lose his patience, so Erik dropped his stalling and bent over his blueprints once more, gesturing for the general to approach. His fingers traced a path.

"This," —he pointed towards the northern terrains— "is where the mujahideen were spotted last. Initially, we had thought their camps resided there, but previous experiences show that is not always the case. Instead, I believe they're situated here," —he moved his finger towards the left, where the brief sketch of a concealed forest lay— "instead of in the villages. They wish to give us false leads, confuse us."

"They're toying with us," Vetrov murmured in realisation.

"Precisely." Erik straightened, rolling the blueprints up. "They have the advantage of knowing their terrain—we do not. The Vietnamese used tunnels to hide from their enemies. Who's to say that ours aren't doing the same?"

Vetrov nodded. "So you truly think they're there."

"Yes."

"Then you shall go and seek them out." He stared at Erik, mouth set in a grim line. "I will not have my men tired with wasted efforts again, and you are not needed on the front line."

Erik pursed his lips, obviously displeased. "I was told that I was to find out where the enemy hides, nothing more."

"And you will." Vetrov glared at Erik unflinchingly, crossing his arms. "You will find them, blend into their environment, discover their tactics. The KGB sent its best spy, and I wish to utilise you to your full potential."

"You want me to become one of them," Erik said flatly. "They will not believe me for one second. The colour of my skin will set them off."

Vetrov sighed exasperatedly. "I don't want you dead, _soldat_ , even if I want to blow your skull off whenever you speak." At this, Erik couldn't hide his smirk—a smirk that was met with Vetrov's look of disdain. "No—I want you to _spy_ on them, fool. Hide, cover your tracks, sleep in a tree for all I care." He stared at Erik stonily, an expression that allowed for no argument. "I want information. I don't care how you get it, or how long it takes. Just come back with something _useful_."

"It will hardly be useful if—"

"For _fuck's_ sakes, man," Vetrov hissed, "it is not useful now to be stuck without a hint of where our enemy is, having them raid our camps and kill our soldiers whenever they please! Men are already falling like fleas from the fucking heat, damn it; our numbers are falling. No, _Phantom_ , you _will_ go—and when you come back, whatever you have discovered _will_ be proved useful." His eyes flashed warningly.

Erik stared impassively, unused and opposed to taking orders. The KGB had not trusted him, but knew well enough that he would complete every assignment without fail. But the execution of the plan was _his_ decision, the methods used _his_ to determine. Vetrov was asking him to venture into unknown territory, facing an enemy who was far more skilled in the area than he. Hell, even the chances of coming across the mujahideen were highly low. He didn't possess the confidence he did while working in the Soviet Union, knowing the escape routes of every zone he found himself in.

And for the first time in his life, he had something to _lose_. Christine was waiting at home for him, alone and probably incredibly frightened for him. He had promised to return to her, safe and whole. Before, he had been carefully reckless, always protective of his own life yet strangely uncaring if he should meet his end. Now, he had a wife, a home—a _life_.

If he sought out the mujahideen, there was no guarantee that he would return alive. And instead of usually throwing himself into a mission, uncaring and motiveless other than to eliminate his target, Erik found himself strangely reluctant.

 _This_ had been the danger of his profession, ever since the beginning. The danger of being tied to someone inexplicably, of letting emotions rule his thinking. This had been what the others—the officers, generals, other assassins—had warned him about. He had waved their worries off at the time, ensuring them he was not prone to such _weakness_.

Three years had changed everything.

Vetrov held his gaze, a hard line creasing his forehead as his frown grew. He was fierce, resolved—another man serving in the line of his country. Others tried and failed to see behind his hard exterior, accepting the general as another stoic, unfeeling man who barked out orders at them.

But Erik knew that he had two sons and a daughter. A lifetime of service and battle scars that left him drinking himself to sleep. Another man who needed this war over, who was just weary and exhausted, wanting to go home.

And as much as he disliked the man, Erik found that he couldn't defy him.

Slowly, Erik nodded. He would spy on the mujahideen. He would discover their secrets, infiltrate their bases.

And be _damned_ if he didn't come out alive.

* * *

 ** _February 1978_**

Hours turned into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, and he still hadn't returned.

Christine was not stupid—she knew that Erik was more than capable of taking care of himself. Or rather, she could trust that he was. She had never seen him in action, after all, and she didn't want to.

She remembered the early days of their relationship, when he would disappear for days on end without an explanation. At first she hadn't questioned it, reasoning that he surely had other matters to take care of when he wasn't with her. At the time, they hadn't been close enough for her to feel comfortable with nagging him to spend time with her, and had shrugged it off. When they started spending more time together, she began questioning him—but he would always divert the conversation, smoothly cutting her off to discuss more pleasant topics. If she persisted, he would give her one excuse or another: he needed to meet with his banker in St Petersburg, to pick up a shipment from his hometown, to meet with a friend who lived in the east.

The most he had been gone was two weeks, at least. But as each day concluded with no sign of Erik at her door, she grew more worried. He must have been held up, or encountered an unexpected setback. Perhaps his assignment was taking longer than expected, and he was merely buying time. Yes, that was surely it. It would not take long, now—he would return soon.

By the end of the month, her faith in his return started to crumble.

Being apart from Erik brought an ever-present throb to her chest, dull yet pressing, empty and yearning to be filled. She felt incomplete without him by her side, holding her, touching her, loving her. She wasn't a fool—she knew that what he did to her was inexcusable. He had lied to her, pried into her life, done horrible things no person should. Who was to say that he wasn't lying about his feelings for her, as well? And, hell—he was an _assassin! That_ was reason enough for her to stay away.

His absence, however, had allowed her what she never truly appreciated: time to think. It was true that his past was dreadful and disturbing. She found herself pacing her room in the evenings after the latest show concluded, thoughts going back and forth. He had admittedto _choosing_ to kill and disrupt others' lives, but he had been brought up in an environment that never encouraged him to see the value of another life when it came to his survival. He had lied to her all these months, but the paranoid government meant that danger was possible at every turn; it was for her _safety_ that he had omitted such vital information. He worked as an _assassin_ , but if he didn't perform his kills, the KGB would surely hurt him—or worse. In a sense, he had been brought up a killer, a rascal who only knew how to do harm—but this was only because his mother had never showed him any love, or others had influenced him into doing so. All he had ever known was violence.

His tragic boyhood didn't excuse his actions, but Christine found that she _understood_. She understood why he was so careful, so private; why he lied to her and why he couldn't stray from the government. He lived in luxury compared to everyone else to keep up pretences. He avoided public places when with her to ensure he would not be identified. He kept his life from her because he knew that she would run from him.

She _should_ run from him. Christine understood that as clearly as she saw her doubts of his love for her fade away. _This_ was what he wanted to avoid—the knowledge that if she was a rational person, she would leave him. She suddenly realised that though his lies were in part to maintain his anonymity, they were also sustained because he loved her too much to let her go. He _wanted_ her with him, that she could see.

The realisation made her heart ache with want, with love, with _him_.

He was a dangerous man who surely had many enemies, who wasn't ideal material for a boyfriend, for a partner. Life with him would be dangerous, full of secrets. She would greet him after he returned from every assignment with a kiss, ignoring the fact that perhaps an hour ago, twelve minutes ago, a week ago, he had ended the life of a threat to their government. Their corrupt, paranoid, selfish government. She tried to think of living in such a way, painfully avoiding his work life, where his money came from, what _they_ were capable of should he fail them.

It frightened her when she realised that she would willingly agree to such a life if she couldn't have him otherwise.

And she loved him with all her heart, despite his shortcomings. Perhaps if she had discovered his secret months ago, she would have been veritably appalled. Perhaps she would have scorned him with disgust and turned him away, cut off all ties with him and firmly tell him to never see her again; done what a _normal_ person would do in her situation. But she had seen too much of his love to leave him now. He had such _passion_ in him, her Erik—she saw it when he played for her while she sang, his eyes closed, body swaying and fingers pounding, utterly absorbed in the music just as she was utterly absorbed in him. She saw it when they would walk by old ruins only for him to stop her and delve into its history, golden orbs lost in the past, knuckles caressing jagged rock as they caressed her cheek as he murmured about the masonry of a once-beautiful building. And she _felt_ it whenever he brushed his lips over her temple with the lightest of kisses, soft and sweet, and then pull back to stare deeply into her eyes, swirling golden galaxies endlessly screaming of a love so unparalleled and consuming, a want so fierce yet gentle, even as his lips never moved.

His passion was beautiful, just as his love was. And if he were as loathsome as he _should_ be, she would not feel for him in such a wild, pure way. She would simply think of him as a despicable, ugly human being.

She shuddered in disgust at herself for even allowing the thought to cross her mind.

Someone who held her with such tenderness couldn't have such darkness within him. He had done horrible things in his past with the mind of a boy; did he still possess the same mind now, as a man?

Christine glanced at the calendar on her wall. _Five weeks since he had left_. She wanted to see him so badly, to melt into his embrace once more and forget everything that had happened between them and go back to the untainted happiness they had shared before. She craved his lips, his voice, his touch; the warmth of his body beside hers as she curled into his side.

And yet that question rang in her mind, pushing her to ask him when he did return, to keep her defences up until he gave her an answer.

 _Did he still possess the same mind now, as a man?_

She groaned as she fell onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow.

* * *

Moscow to Cherepovets, Cherepovets to Kotlas, Kotlas to Leshukonskoye. Boarding a train, stopping at the city for a few days, boarding another train, stopping once more. Hours spent mapping out routes, stocking up on disguises, covering up tracks. Checking into hotels sharing a room, using separate rooms, all under different guises: brother, friend, cousin. Nikolai had joked once about claiming to be lovers, but Raoul had quickly shot down the idea. Such a label would garner more attention towards them than necessary.

Raoul was tired. Every night he slept hoping that he would escape this awful dream, only to wake and realise this was his reality all over again. Everyday, he wondered about his family. Did they miss him? Were they thinking about him? Did they wonder why he had left so suddenly, without so much as a goodbye? Did they think he abandoned them?

Or were they carrying on with their daily lives, dismissive without a care to his wellbeing?

As they always did, his thoughts turned bitterly towards his father. His cold, calculating father, who ordered kills without a second thought—even if the target was to be his son. He wondered if his father had ever loved him at all. He had always been distant and dismissive, never showing pride at his accomplishments, decidedly stern at his failures. He remembered how hard he and his siblings had worked to strive to please their father, dedicating time into their schoolwork, sports, talents—and all to receive a simple nod of vague approval before they were dismissed. He wondered if their pitiful, desperate attempts were considered masochism. Were his children merely trophies for him to show off? Did he merely drive them forwards to have something to boast about?

He had known that his father was cruel towards his enemies, but had never believed he would order the death of his own son. Raoul had imagined the man would hold some sort of affection, of _compassion_ towards him. Raoul was his flesh and blood, his youngest child. He had inherited most of his father's looks, from the neat blonde streaks to the long, elegantly curved nose. At times, he would catch the man shooting a glance of warmth towards his way—a look that would fill him with comfort and security, even if it was never long lasting. Surely he wouldn't want his youngest son to be _killed_.

Raoul wondered if he had truly known his father all this time.

Léonard de Chagny had never spared his children kisses or hugs; those were given by their mother. Their mother, Raoul thought with an ache in his chest, who never held back her warm gazes, her obvious pride. Her love. She had told his bedtime stories, taught him to read, showered him with kisses upon his hair whenever he came home from school. And yet, Raoul had never truly expressed how much he loved her before he had left—something that made him sigh with regret now.

The sound of a train horn blaring, loud and invasive, snapped him out of his thoughts. He blinked, finding himself back in the compartment he had occupied about five hours ago. It was small and cramped compared to the rest of the trains they had been on. The seats were torn at the edges, clearly in need for refurnishing. Heating was minimal; he pulled his cloak tighter over himself, shivering.

The window showed a train station steadily approaching, this one older, the pillars and columns weathering from the cold. Opposite him, Nikolai bent to retrieve the small briefcase he had pushed under his seat, placing it on his lap. His black hair was ruffled and mouth set in a grim line. "Quickly, now," he told Raoul, grey eyes regarding him tiredly. Nikolai was as weary as he was, and in desperate need for a rest. They would stop in the city for tonight, for both of their sakes.

Soon enough, the train started to slow, signifying its stop. Raoul reached for his own briefcase, checking the straps and buckles to ensure that nothing had fallen out. Ensuring that his money and belongings were secure, he sat up, ready to stand at any given moment. They would need to navigate the station quickly once they arrived; although they had donned disguises in the forms of low fedoras and brown-haired wigs, Raoul didn't want to take the chance of being noticed by anyone, as he always did. It would give Erik a greater chance of finding them if they were.

The train slowed to a stop and both men immediately stood, slipping out of the compartment easily. The hallway of the train was empty, everyone still in their compartments. Walking briskly, they made their way to the exit before anyone else decided to emerge. They stepped off the steps of the train and instantly strode towards the stairs of the station, blending in easily with the other people. The station was busy; everyone was rushing to get to their destination as soon as possible. Voices filled the air; shouting, snapping, calling out for someone to hurry. Raoul and Nikolai were inconspicuous amongst the pushing individuals, all impatient, all rushing.

They reached the exit that led towards the main road, then turned left without pausing. Raoul had already studied the maps of Leshukonskoye prior to arriving so that they may navigate the city with ease. Cool air whipped past his face as he walked briskly, biting at his eyes and lips. It was late evening, so not many people were out, and those who were dashed to reach their homes before it became dark. The cobblestoned streets were mostly empty, allowing for them to move quickly. A few sharp turns, then they were on the road to a small hotel at the end of the street, the little 'Bed and Breakfast' sign dully calling for future customers.

The men had decided on two rooms this time, knowing that each needed a full-nights rest. Raoul knew that two rooms made it more difficult if they needed to suddenly escape, but was too tired to bother with sharing his space with Nikolai. Besides, he was fairly confident that Erik was not aware of their location—they had switched routes many times.

The lady at the concierge greeted them with a yawn. Requesting for rooms did not take long, all of them eager to get to sleep. It was only ten minutes later that Raoul entered his own room on the third floor. He looked towards the small, dingy single bed, the sink and mirror towards the side, the door that must lead to the toilet—and sighed in relief.

Routinely, he loosened his scarf and slipped off his coat, shirt and trousers, before shucking off his boots and retrieving his night clothes from his briefcase. Despite having to leave at such short notice, Raoul had grabbed his cotton pyjamas and woollen socks, knowing he would need to revel in their comfort during his loneliest times. They smelt like home; slightly spicy and laced with the hint of lavender detergent. He sighed deeply, knowing that he would probably never smell those two combined scents again.

He turned back the covers and settled into the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. It was not comfortable, he noted as he shifted to find a comfortable position, but the blankets were thick and fluffy, infused with warmth. Finally accepting the fact that he would wake with a sore back tomorrow, he reached a hand out to switch off the light by the bedside table, plunging the room into darkness.

The room was completely dark. The moon was not out tonight, the windows covered with thick curtains. There were no sounds of cars or buses driving by the quiet street, no hint of drunken singing or late nights in the sleepy city. The sound of his breathing filled the silent room, as if he were the only one alive tonight in this sleeping city, unaware and uncaring as they dozed on in their beds. He was struck with unease, and shut his eyes tightly, fighting the discomfort that suddenly filled his senses and determined to find rest.

He was woken by the feeling of something sharp pressed against his neck, cool metal idly resting.

His eyes flew open, heart thudding rapidly as he started. Blue eyes darted around wildly even as they were blind in the darkness, desperate to discover the man behind the weapon that he easily identified as a dagger. Was it an aimless thief, perhaps even a trick set up by the concierge? Or was it a greater threat, was it _him_ — _?_

He inhaled sharply when he saw it—a pair of golden eyes hovering above him, burning and ardent as they glared down at him, freezing him to his spot.

The first thing that he felt was dismay. After everything he and Nikolai had done, Erik had still found them. All the disguises, the switching routes, the attempts to conceal their tracks—all for nothing. The Phantom had tracked them down with apparent ease, and was here to finally perform his kill. Raoul swallowed thickly at the prospect of losing his life after his desperate attempts to protect it. Soon enough, he would be silenced. His voice would fade into nothingness, never to leave its mark again. He, a distinguished member of the _samizdat_ , would not live to carry on their legacy. His government had won once again in stifling the true sentiment of its nation.

It was a bitter pill to swallow.

Raoul was careful not to move too much as he breathed, fear for pain gripping him even as he knew he would feel the knife piercing his skin in a matter of minutes—maybe even seconds. His fingers curled into fists underneath the covers. "Don't—" he said out loud, the silence interrupted by the sound of his voice before it caught. Taking another breath, he tried again. "Make it quick," he requested, accepting his fate. To his own ears, he sounded resigned, tired—defeated.

Idly, he remembered that once again, he was in his nightclothes while Erik loomed above him, dark and menacing. Once again, he was at the other man's mercy. There must be some irony in there, somewhere.

Those eyes were the only thing he saw—would be the last thing he saw. Though it was dark, Raoul knew that the man standing by his bedside donned his infamous mask. He could almost imagine it: black and menacing, shaped perfectly over the contours of his face, concealing every inch of skin, even down to his chin. It was a mask that signified death; a mask that men saw before they were killed.

He would never be granted the same chance, trapped in this room too dark for even shadows to reside in.

He closed his eyes, scrunching them up tightly. This was it—he was going to die. The Phantom had found them after all.

Raoul had lost.

The knife pressed without constricting, held still against his neck. Silence was all he could hear, loud and deafening. His ears were ringing with the rapid pounding of blood. Slight pressure, and his breath hitched.

And then suddenly, it was gone. Raoul opened his eyes, confused. The knife was no longer pressed to his skin, not even leaving a trace of a scar behind. Thoughts of a prolonged death, a cruel torture filled his mind, gripping him with fear. _What is he playing at?_ he thought desperately, sitting up hurriedly. Was this some sort of trick—to have him belief that he was not going to die, to give him _hope_ only to take it away at the last minute? A sudden anger flooded through him, blood running hot and thick through his veins even as he swallowed thickly in fear. Even if this _was_ Erik's intention, what was he to do about it? He was entirely at this man's mercy, and—

"Run," said the darkness, low and hypnotic. Raoul blinked, struck dumb at the deep, resounding voice, instructive and commanding. His blood was still pounding wildly in his ears, recovering from the fear that had taken hold only mere moments ago. "Leave this place. Leave this country. Not to Europe—no, go towards the east—towards Siberia. Keep travelling south, into Asia—Oceania, if you can."

The voice was clipped, betraying no hint of emotion. Raoul frowned, entirely befuddled by now. Leave _Europe_ _?_ Travel _east?_ It was preposterous! He knew no one in the east, had never been to Asia in his life—the roads and routes were unfamiliar to him, having never studied them before. How was he to survive in such a foreign land? How was he to fend for himself without—

His eyes widened and he sat back against the headboard, stunned. Of _course_ Erik would ask him to go there. Nobody would suspect it of him—not even his brother, his closest confidante. He would disappear completely from Soviet Russia. It was ideal—it was perfect. He would never be in danger from the government ever again.

His heartbeat slowed, his fear melting away. Slow, steady breaths escaped his lips. He was not going to die, he realised. Erik was not going to kill him. He was overwhelmed, grateful, confused and relieved all at once, and he struggled to regain control over his body once again.

Blue eyes travelled around the room, searching for something—anything—to signify the other man's presence. Unable to locate him, Raoul simply directed his gaze where he had seen the Phantom last: by his bedside, a level above him. "Why are you doing this?" he asked quietly.

Silence was his answer. The golden eyes were no longer in sight. The curtains flapped softly, and Raoul saw a hint of light peeking on the floorboards.

Dawn had come once more.

* * *

Two months and ten days had passed since he had left.

Everyday, Christine would walk to the Bolshoi Theatre with Meg for a day of rehearsals. She passed the day by with pointless vocal warm-ups, learning blocking she had already memorised, reenacting love scenes that made her suppress the urge to vomit. Her singing was perfect, but emotionless. Her movements were practiced, but passionless. Scenes that involved lamenting over her lover's death made her heart grow tender with torment; scenes that required her to express romance made it ache with longing. The orchestra that had always astounded her now sounded toneless to her ears. She felt nothing for everything, her ardour and love for _life_ dissipating before her very eyes.

Everyday, she walked home with Meg and disappeared into her room, only to stare pointlessly at the ceiling. It was during these moments that she felt the ache most.

She missed him. She missed him, and she missed him _so much_.

But above all, she worried for him. Each night passed sleeplessly as she anxiously wondered if he was thinking of her too, if he was safe, if he was _alive_. She wondered if he might have been hurt—after all, tasks such as these _must_ involve violence, mustn't they? She didn't know. Her lip grew numb from the number of times she had bit into it, distressed. The worst part about all of this was not knowing if he was safe, if he went through each day unharmed.

Her heart thudded painfully at the idea that if he _was_ hurt—or worse, _dead_ —their last memory together had been of her clear rejection of him, her blatant disapproval and appalling reaction to finding out his darkest secret. It wasn't like Erik had a _choice_ to quit this—to quit _assassinating_ people—and she had dismissed him with clear disgust. _But he's wrong to do so!_ her mind protested defensively. _He lied to me, he hid this from me, and he_ kills _people. Of course I had to push him away!_

But time had only intensified her longing for him—and her love. No matter how much she detested the idea of what he had to do—what he was probably doing _right now_ —she couldn't quell her fierce desire to have him by her side, to thread her fingers in his hair and listen to his sigh of contentment. She missed his beautiful golden eyes, comforting and warm every time they settled their gaze upon her. She missed the feel of his bony shoulder upon her cheek, of his heart that beat a little too wildly whenever she pressed her ear against his ribcage. She missed rubbing her nose whenever she bumped his own, complaining at how sharp it was. She missed his thin lips, always ready to chase hers whenever she pulled away. She missed feeling his thin arms around her waist as he rested his chin upon her shoulder, his voice murmuring teasingly about her height into her ear, complaining about how much he needed to bend and that his back would surely be sore by tomorrow, Christine, so she'd better appreciate this.

Thinking about their sweet memories made her ache with an intensity that rattled through her entire frame. She felt his absence in her bones, needing his intoxication in her blood. He was hers, and it was grief to think that he might be doubting that fact. If he was alive, if he was still breathing.

But despite how much she loved him, she could not forget about his deceit, about how blatantly and clearly _insane_ she must be to love a killer. Because that was the true, harsh reality of everything: she man she had given her heart to killed people for a living. It made her nauseous to think that he had ended the lives of many, had chosen to kill when he was a boy. And then she would remember his heartless, uncaring mother, and feel a surge of tender sympathy. And then she would shake her head firmly, because his tragic background did _not_ excuse his behaviour. And the cycle continued—the vicious love, the crying fury, the aching sympathy.

And she was determined to ask him _the question_ when he returned. She wasn't sure what she would do if his answer was one she didn't approve of.

Christine was staring up at her ceiling that night, as she always did, before Meg burst into her room.

"Christine!" she exclaimed, eyes wide. Her golden hair was still in its neat bun, but a strand had escaped and was hanging loose over her face. She pushed it aside impatiently. "Erik's here!"

It was incredible what two words could do to her. Christine instantly sat up, cobalt eyes widening like her friend's, heart suddenly thudding incessantly in her ears. Excitement, relief and fear invaded her thoughts all at once. Her blood was pounding, rushing into her cheeks.

"What?" she asked breathlessly, frozen in her spot.

"He's at the door! He was asking to see you—"

Christine never heard the last of Meg's words; she had already thrown her legs over the side of her bed and rushed out of her room. Her legs carried her forwards with quick, eager strides, desperate to see her love again. Everything held more colour to her eyes, now; the living room glowed under the light, the television Meg had acquired with her recent salary bright and cheery. She suddenly felt more alive than she had in months, and it was all due to the thought that he was _here_ , he was _safe_ , he had _come back_ to her.

The front door seemed too far from her, and she picked up her stride, impatient to see her lover once more. All thoughts of his betrayal flew from her mind, replaced with the knowledge that he was _alive_.

And then, she reached the front door and saw him.

The first thing she noticed was that he was donned in the same dark coat he had worn when they had first met. His feet shuffled uncomfortably as he looked down at his shoes, clearly unaware that he was being watched. From what she could see, he was relatively unharmed; there were no scratches upon his pale cheeks, no bruises upon his bony knuckles. His hair was combed back neatly, and she thought that he seemed thinner than usual, though she wondered if she had just grown unused to his usual skinniness in his absence. His thin lips were pursed, and she couldn't read the straight, blank expression upon his face.

"Erik," she breathed, unable to hold her voice back any longer.

His gaze snapped up, and she almost sobbed with relief upon seeing those golden eyes trained on hers once more. At once, the stoic expression he wore melted and was replaced by a tender, fierce, encompassing manner that was all too familiar yet still managed to make her knees weak. His gaze traced her form just as she did his, starting from her feet and travelling up to her legs, hips, hands, chest, neck, lips. She watched as he noted the sweater clinging onto her form, slightly too big for her, and her hair she wore in a messy bun She held her breath when he finally met her eyes once more, burning softly, beautifully.

"Christine," he sighed gently, and she shivered at the sound of his voice, angelic and seductive, deep and powerful and gorgeously hypnotic. She couldn't help herself; she closed the distance between them and embraced him, arms winding tightly around his neck. Long arms curled around her waist, and she moulded her body to fit against his, pushing every inch of her to his. Her heart now throbbed and thrived, insisting that this was _right_.

She felt that she had finally returned home. Her body sang, coming to life once more. She threaded fingers in his hair, burying her nose into his neck and breathing his scent in deeply, wanting to memorise every inch of his body, to remember how he felt in her arms.

All too soon he pulled back, firm even as she fought to hold him fast against her. His loving look was now replaced by agitation, swirling distractedly within brilliant gold. "Christine," he said once more, but this time he sounded almost pained. She immediately let him go, her own conflicting feelings towards him rushing back at once. She took a step back, and his gaze twisted upsettingly.

"Christine," Erik repeated. Then, "I need to talk to you. In _private_ ," he stressed, nodding to a spot behind her.

She blinked, then turned and saw the hint of blonde hair whipping past the door of the hallway, disappearing from view. "Oh," she said dumbly, suddenly realizing that Meg, too, shared this flat. For one brief, blissful moment she had only seen him, felt him. It was as if they had been the only two existing within this time, two beings finally reunited once more.

Reality came crushing back, and Christine found herself remembering her dilemma, her struggle to love or leave him. Swallowing, she nodded. "My room," she said, then turned without another word, suddenly tense at the idea of touching him. She wondered how her heart worked, if it kept switching between loving and loathing him.

She led him to her room, and uncomfortably invited him to sit upon her bed once the door was shut behind them. She was both disappointed and relieved when he declined, choosing to stand while she settled on the bed, back straight and attentive. And then, with a long exhale and a defeated look, he told her.

Time seemed to cease as Erik spoke and she listened. He told her about venturing underground once more and finding the folder resting on his desk. He told her about discovering that he was supposed to kill Raoul—her breath hitched at that, her eyes growing wide with fear. She should have paid more attention when Raoul didn't answer her calls instead of pushing him aside in her own dismay. She was a terrible friend. She started to protest in blatant fury, panic for Raoul's safety gnawing at her mind, but he hushed her and she found herself shutting her mouth, affronted. He told her about how he chased Raoul through the Soviet Union—the boy was a challenge, he commented wryly, and she opened her mouth to interrupt him hotly before he hushed her once more. He recounted days poring over maps, days when he wasn't even in the same city as Raoul, days when he was hopelessly lost.

And then he told her about how he had finally found Raoul, how the men check into a small hotel for the night as he lingered in the shadows, watching silently. She gripped her sheets with fear when he told her that he slipped into her friend's room that night, intent on ending his life without a second thought. Her heart thudded wildly in agitation, both eager and reluctant to know what had befallen her friend. An icy fury simmered beneath the surface of her emotions as well—a fury purely directed towards the man she loved with all her heart. It confused and distressed her.

But in the end, she listened as Erik revealed he hadn't killed her friend, after all. Her panic for Raoul melted into a relieved, general but not entirely encompassing concern for her friend, knowing that he was safe once more. He looked at her, troubled, his heart in his eyes, as he quietly said that he couldn't have done it, and he should have, he should have.

He should have, he couldn't have. The words played and replayed in her mind as Erik finally lapsed into silence, his tale concluded. When she looked up at him, he was staring emotionlessly at the wall instead of watching her nervously as she expected him to. It was a change for him—a change she realised that had been apparent all along. She had _seen_ it, after all—the wry, witty man who had waited for her at the stage door one night, softly telling her how radiant she had been on that stage. That wry, witty man who had somehow shared his heart with her after the throes of passion, who had cradled her as she slept and sang to her when she was distressed.

And at once, she knew the answer to his question. He had seen the hurt of the world, had made decisions unthinkingly and without a care, but ultimately, the boy he once was and the man that stood before her now were two entirely different people. And this man—this new man—he was blind, unexperienced, but he was _trying_. And though she couldn't forget his past, she could forgive it for the hurt and confusion he felt now.

Christine quietly opened her arms, and he melted into them, and since then, she had never once let him go.

* * *

 **A/N:** As always, leave a review!


	10. I Was Nothing

**A/N:** Thank you for the lovely reviews, and I'm sorry for the long wait! It was more difficult than I thought to find time to write. Anyway, have this chapter to satisfy your EC cravings. And let it be known that this chapter was a _huge_ struggle to get through, holy hell. I hope you enjoy it!

 **WARNING:** This chapter contains light smut and mentions of violence. Also, lots swearing. And some sweetness and... unsettling things.

And I would like to thank the lovely Scarlet Stalking Abroad for her input and help—they've been essential to a _very_ important scene.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, The Enemy, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _Give me hope in silence,_

 _It's easier; It's kinder._

 _Tell me not of heartbreak,_

 _It plagues my soul, plagues my soul._

* * *

 _ **February 1979**_

"Alright, everyone—good work!" Anton called out. "That's all for today. Have a restful weekend, because we'll be back at eight _sharp_ on Monday!"

Erik suppressed a smirk as the cast collectively let out a groan. It was understandable; Anton had pushed them far today, rehearsing the tiniest details over and over again. The ballet rats leaned tiredly against the edge of the stage, massaging their sore feet. The main cast had already taken refuge by the seats, collapsing onto comfortable velvet chairs.

 _Still, it's quite fortunate that they had gotten Anton as a director,_ Erik mused to himself. He knew that if they had gotten _him_ , they would be kept long after working hours in his strive for perfection. His notebook was already full from the scribbles he had taken of today's rehearsals. There were all too many criticisms to make, too little he could compliment on.

But in his defense, Anton _had_ requested his help because of his attention to detail. If Anton wanted his production to be praised, he would have asked any theatre critic's opinion—they would surely have many to spare. The opera was already turning out quite well, but Anton always aspired to improve—a quality Erik admired in the man. Erik was simply delivering what was asked for—and a little more, of course.

Besides, spending his days in the Bolshoi were much more appealing than moping around by himself. His occupation didn't demand his daily attendance, after all, and he was always eager to be around his prima donna. His prima donna who, at the moment, had simply sunk onto the floor with crossed legs, sitting in the middle of the stage with her loose sweater and braided hair, pouting like a petulant child. She had just finished singing her big aria when Anton had ended rehearsals—an aria that required quite a bit of movement around the vast stage. The critic in him was irritated at her lack of professionalism, but the lover found it quite adorable.

She must have felt him staring at her, for her blue eyes darted to meet his. With the smallest quirk of his lips, Erik raised a questioning eyebrow, nodding questioningly at her position. Christine merely shrugged and flashed him a sweet, blinding smile—and as always, he softened at the sight of her.

It was infuriatingly heartwarming, how she could reduce him— _him,_ the USSR's most prized weapon—to a foolish, lovesick _boy_ with a simple smile. He had thought that his heart would stop racing at the sight of her after a few months, that this queasy feeling would cease once they passed the 'head-over-heels-in-love' stage.

And yet two years had passed and he _still_ wanted to take her into his arms, crush himself against her, into her. There was never a moment when he was not thinking about her.

Meg walked towards Christine at that moment, hands on hips and a condescending smile upon her face, causing his darling to break their eye contact to address the blonde. Erik snapped the dazed look away, immediately hardening once more. They were in public, after all—they should not display their love so blatantly for the world to see.

Walking towards Anton from the piano he had been lurking, Erik crossed his arms as he stood next to the director. The two men observed the busy scene together, silently watching the theatre buzz around them, everyone packing up and chatting loudly. "Eight?" he asked in a murmur, watching as members of the cast made their way towards the exit. "Would that be early enough?"

Anton let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a snort. "You're insane, Erik," he said with a wry smile, then held a hand out expectantly. Erik snapped the notebook he held shut before placing it in the other man's hand.

Just then, Christine jumped off the edge of the stage, looking exhausted even as she smiled. Her hair had been loosened from its braid; curls now framed her face softly, slightly tamer than usual from being held back the whole day. Attentive blue eyes spotted Anton and Erik talking, and she started to walk towards them.

"Fantastic work today, Christine," the director said appreciatively as she approached. Christine smiled in acknowledgement, slipping in to stand next to Erik. Their shoulders stood a breadth apart, something he appreciated greatly. While Christine was perfectly comfortable with public displays of affection, Erik was not. Of course, the cast were perfectly aware of their relationship, but he had firmly refused to exhibit their love. To him, their bond was private, intimate—something only the two of them shared. He had told her as much when she had asked for an explanation. She had rolled her eyes, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and nodded with acceptance.

Christine caught his eye once more, raising an eyebrow as she did so. He shrugged, mirroring their earlier exchange, and inclined his head towards the still speaking Anton.

"…And your diction is much clearer, well done. _But_ ," Anton was saying, nodding towards Erik, "I'm sure your boyfriend will have something to say about your performance."

A grimace played at his lips at the casual use of 'boyfriend', but he chose not to comment. If he had his way, he would be adopting a more suitable title soon.

A sudden rush of nerves clouded his throat, making it difficult to swallow. It was familiarly uncomfortable—he had never been nervous around anyone until he had met Christine, after all.

The little box in his pocket suddenly seemed to expand to a boulder, weighing him down. It was a feeling he had become well acquainted with ever since he had purchased her ring.

Her ring—the ring he was yet to give to her, along with a request that she marry him.

It was undoubtedly daunting.

Christine directed her gaze to him expectantly and, suddenly remembering that the conversation was directed his way, he pushed all thoughts of what he was planning to ask of her away, instead focusing on recalling his critiques on her performance. She had sung magnificently, as she always did, only becoming an improvement of perfection. However, her movements on stage were stiff and left much to desire for, and her higher notes were much too sharp. He opened her mouth, ready to inform her—

But one look at the tired eyes behind her smile, her drooping frame, made him abruptly change his mind.

"I'll run through everything with her by Monday," he assured Anton. Christine shot a grateful look his way, then reached a hand out. He stiffened out of instinct, having half a mind to hiss at her that they were in _public_ , but she simply rolled cobalt eyes at him, squeezing his hand once before letting go.

"That's settled, then," Anton nodded, gathering his belongings. The theatre was almost empty now, with everyone eager to get some food into their bellies. His lover politely bid the director farewell, then moved to settle in one of the seats, leaning her head against the backrest and closing her eyes.

Erik watched as Anton grabbed his satchel, slipping the notebook and score into the bag before fishing out a beige scarf. Nimble fingers knotted it expertly about his neck. "Thanks again, Erik," he nodded, working at the scarf. "I really appreciate it."

"He doesn't really have anything better to do," Christine called from her seat, head still tilted back and eyes still closed.

Erik turned from her, shrugged sheepishly at Anton. "She's right," he said with a wry smile, some parts of him bitter by the truth in her words, some parts grateful she had made it comic.

Anton merely laughed good-naturedly and shook his head. "All the better for our production." Then, checking his watch, he began to shrug on his coat. "I have to go—my wife's waiting. Switch the lights off before you leave, alright?"

"Of course, Anton," Erik nodded.

The director smiled, zipping his coat up. "Have a good weekend, you two."

"Bye, Anton," Christine yawned. Anton walked towards the exit, turning to give one last wave towards the couple before pushing the door open and venturing out into the cold.

The door clicked shut behind him, the biting wind abruptly cut off as it did. Suddenly, they were alone, and suddenly, Erik felt his confidence melt away once more. A glance towards his beloved showed her still laying against her seat, finally letting exhaustion claim her bones. He ached to move and stand beside her, brush the hair away from her eyes, kiss her soft skin and carry her home.

Instead, he walked towards the piano. The theatre was silent apart from the slight shuffling of papers, the quick arrangement of sheet music. He stood with a slight tenseness to his shoulders, a frequent feature since he had first purchased the ring was now tucked safely into his pocket.

There was never a perfect time to propose to her. Often, he would find himself staring at her—whether it be watching her prepare a meal, listening to her voice, stroking her hair back after they made love—and feel the urge to _ask_ her. They were such simple words—simple words that held such magnitude.

 _Will you marry me?_

It was on the tip of his tongue, yet was never said.

He had known that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her the moment she had taken him into her arms that fateful night, after he had returned from hunting Raoul down. He had found a woman who accepted him, a woman with a heart so pure and honest, so fierce in her belief of his innate goodness. Her faith in him was untainted, virtuous, and he found himself wanting to be a man worthy of her love. A _good_ man whom, even if he was employed by the KGB, aimed to compromise and kill only when it was necessary.

It was twisted, his reasoning, but it kept him from losing himself in self-hatred.

Erik was, however, plagued with the need to make his proposal _perfect_. Christine deserved the best; she deserved everything he had to offer and more.

Some of his rigidity must have shown, because he suddenly felt a slender hand smoothening over the muscles of his tight back. He stiffened, feeling her warmth move closer to him, feeling the slight wisp of breath on his spine.

"You've been so tense today," he heard her murmur behind him, and shut his eyes tightly. Of course Christine noticed. He should have known that she would, after all; she knew him perhaps more deeply than he knew himself. His own fingers clenched into fists as they rested on top of the piano, the sheet music laying forgotten in a hastily arranged pile.

Nimble fingers worked against his strain, tracing light patterns onto the material of his shirt. Unbidden, Erik found himself relaxing into her touch as always. Slowly, his thoughts of a perfect proposal, the idea that she might refuse him (a thought he had firmly pushed away) started to evaporate. He could only think of her hands—her hands drifting across his shoulders, tracing down an arm with the softest of caresses.

"Christine—" he began to protest, somehow remembering through his haze of comfort that they were still in a public area. He started to straighten, but Christine grasped his shoulder firmly.

"The theatre is empty, Erik," she reminded him gently.

Letting out a sigh of defeat, he allowed her to take his hand and turn him away from the piano to face her. Another sigh escaped his lips as her hand lifted to caress his cheek, thumb stroking his skin.

"The production is stressing you too much, sweetheart," she observed, brushing hair away from his face.

With eyes still closed, Erik wanted to let out a bark of laughter. She had uncovered his secret without him knowing, knew him as nobody else did. It was painfully amusing that she had made the wrong assumption about the source of his nerves.

Instead, he placed a hand over the one covering his cheek, threading fingers with hers. He blinked golden eyes open, resting a soft gaze onto his beloved. "It's nothing, love," he assured, placing a kiss onto her palm.

Her forehead scrunched into an endearing frown. "You're overworking yourself," she insisted stubbornly. "You need rest."

"All I ever need is you."

"You make me want to vomit sometimes, Erik."

Erik smiled wryly, before catching her waist and drawing her to him, pressing his lips to hers in a deep kiss. There was never a moment he could tire of kissing her, of feeling her lips part for his as he knew they would. He felt glorious fingers threading through his hair, tugging in ways she knew he liked, and traced her bottom lip with his tongue, soft and slow. The echo of her moan made him pull back an inch, satisfied that she had yielded to him. He raised an eyebrow. "Still feeling nauseous?"

"I'm going to be sick," she answered, trying to sound miffed despite uneven breaths. He chuckled and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

It would be perfect to ask her now. All he had to do was look into her eyes, tell her how much he loved her, then drop onto one knee and ask the question. His head pounded from her intoxicating blue eyes, hazy as they always were whenever he kissed her like that. It never failed to thrill him in ways he could never forget.

The velvet box hung heavily in his pocket, screaming at him to _ask_ her.

Instead, he said, "I wrote something for you."

Christine raised an eyebrow, her interest caught as he knew it would be. "Oh?" she questioned enquiringly, barely masking her eager surprise.

Erik let out a soft laugh before releasing her. Long legs carried him towards the seat of the piano. "Come; I may as well play it for you, seeing as we're alone. The acoustics here are much more pleasant, too."

Christine's laugh was like listening to bells chiming. "Your music room won't be pleased to hear that," she teased, loose curls falling over her shoulder.

Erik shrugged. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"Erik!" Christine admonished, moving to stand behind him. Her hand lightly whacked his shoulder. "Should I be worried?"

"You're the exception, darling," he replied smoothly, adding a smirk for effect.

She rolled her eyes but bent to kiss him on the cheek anyway. He sighed with pleasure as her lips grazed his stubble. He would never tire of feeling her touch upon his skin.

Erik settled before the piano, straightening fingers out. His fingers trailed over the keys smoothly, lightly tracing them with a lover's touch. This was his instrument, his music—his one constant in his life. This was something that had followed him his entire life, a comfort he had indulged in during his darkest moments. Tense shoulders relaxed slightly, his chest expanding with a deep breath.

He felt her straighten behind him, then move to perch by the side of the piano so that he could see her face as he played. Erik looked up, meeting her radiant blue eyes, trained on his own with open, blatant affection. It took his breath away.

His long, elegant fingers began to weave the beginnings of a melody out on the piano, and his heart warmed as her smile grew. The music was simple, merely the opening chords of the piece. But even in its simplicity, Christine managed to make it seem as if he were playing a symphony for her. Dark lashes fluttered against her rosy cheek as her eyes closed, breathing in deeply as she listened. He watched her greedily, eyes trained on her every movement.

Perhaps he would ask her today, perhaps tomorrow—he didn't know. All he knew at that moment was that he loved her with his entire being, and he was expressing it the only way he knew how: through his music.

So he played. He poured his entire being into the music, letting the notes float from his soul. The piece he had written for her took flight, and then his voice was soaring as well, soft and low at first, and then rising beatifically in a crescendo, magnificent, ardent, glorious. The words he had penned while thinking of her echoed from his throat, filling the empty theatre with a melody that spoke of his love for her—for his Christine. It was passionate yet subtle, a declaration of his salvation. Of the sheer, wondrous feeling that consumed him every time he thought of her, looked at her.

What he could not say through words, he conveyed through song. Erik opened his eyes, searching for her familiar blue orbs and found her gazing at him with clear adoration, expression soft yet burning, captivating him by the uneven rise and fall of her chest. Everything he felt for her, all that he had thought of while writing this composition was reflected in her own eyes. The sudden, swooping realization that she felt as strongly for him as he did for her hit him with full force, and he felt a ferocious need, a sweeping fire that wanted _her_ , felt like _her_ , was _her_.

Abruptly he stood, the music cutting off as his fingers left the keys. Instead, he let his voice carry the song through, bringing his music to heights he had always known it could reach yet never had before. _She_ brought this out in him—this passion that completed his music, that completed him. He sang for her, intoxicated by the combination of his two great loves: music, and Christine.

And suddenly, he knew what to do.

Erik approached her with slow steps, instantly filled with a confidence that shook him to his core. At that moment, he felt limitless; she could ask him for the sun and he would burn himself to bring it to her. It was all clear now. He loved her, and she loved him. Why wait another moment to make their lives one?

The look on Christine's face left him breathless. As his song trailed to an end, he came to stand directly in front of her, the piano by their side, and quietly slipped his right hand into the pocket that kept her ring.

She stared at him with a wonder that made him want to shout from the rooftops. The love he felt for her was so plainly written on her face, from the soft parting of her lips, her stunned, deep blaze of electric blue, her rosy-tinted cheeks.

Unable to resist her, he closed the distance between them, claiming her lips with his. His left hand rose to lie on her cheek while his right wriggled as inconspicuously as it could in his pocket, working to remove the ring from its box. She surprised him with her ardour, his song bringing out the fire within her. Her lips were hard against his, her hands framing his face in a caress.

Finally, the ring came free from its cage. Heart thudding rapidly, blood pounding in his ears, Erik gently lifted his right hand, prying her left free from his face. Then, their lips still pressed together, he turned her hand over and threaded their fingers together, the ring pressed between their palms.

He felt her confusion when her lips slowed against his, her fingers curled by his cheek. He resisted the urge to chase her lips when she pulled back, and opened his eyes. Christine's expression was adorable, forehead creasing as she frowned, puzzled. The little diamond stud of the ring cut sharply into his palm, and he knew that she was trying to determine what it was that rested between their hands.

Unable to suppress herself, she questioned, "What's this?"

Erik merely shrugged with what he hoped to be nonchalance, heart beating wildly in his chest. This was it—there was no going back from here. He would have to ask her. She narrowed her eyes at him and he resisted the urge to grin nervously. Somehow, giving her a ring was more daunting than any task he had ever performed for the government.

"Erik," she intoned warningly, making to pull her hand away from his.

He held it fast, bringing their joined hands up to his chest, where his heart rested. "Christine," he breathed in return.

Then, turning her palm to face upwards, he moved his hand to reveal the simple diamond ring.

Her breath hitched as she caught sight of it, a modest silver band; one he knew would match her tastes when he had first caught sight of it. The diamond itself was small, the jewel resting delicately on the metal, iridescent and glowing. His heart swelling, Erik watched as the woman he loved stared at the ring, then looked up at him, her beautiful, radiant cobalt eyes shining.

"Erik?" she asked breathlessly.

He lowered himself onto one knee and she gasped.

"I wanted to wait to ask you," he admitted as she stared at him disbelievingly. "I've barely lived three decades, and we've only known each other for three short years of those. I wondered if it would be too soon to tell you that I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Her breath caught at that, and he gazed up at her softly, his heart in his eyes.

God, he loved her—how he loved her.

"I've had this ring for weeks," he confessed softly, a small smile playing at his lips. "I hadn't planned on purchasing it, but I saw it one day and didn't think before buying it. All I could see was how perfect it would look on your ring finger, and I had to get it for you. But then there was the proposal to think about." He chuckled, shaking his head. "You deserve perfection—you deserve so much more than I can give you, and I wanted to _try_ and give you the best I could. For weeks I contemplated on how to ask you, where I would ask you, if I should even ask you so soon at all."

"Erik—" Christine began, but he shook his head gently.

"I told you once that there's nothing I could refuse of you," he murmured. "You wanted my love—and I'm giving it to you. All of it. I'd bring you the entire planet if I could, if only to see your smile. But unfortunately, that's entirely impossible, so I wrote you a song instead."

She let out a laugh that was a mixture of exasperation and warmth. His smile widened ever so slightly, a quirk of lips so unfamiliar to him yet feeling so, so right.

"I think you already know how much I love you, Christine," he said, and she nodded quickly, impatient for him to continue. He suppressed a chuckle. "I'm certain that my love for you will only grow from now, and I wish to spend the rest of my life showing you that. So, Christine Daaé, the light of my life—will you marry me?"

A muffled noise escaped her throat, light and high and excited. "Yes," she nodded ecstatically, eyes shining brightly, and he felt his heart stop.

 _Wait_ — _w_ _hat did she say?_

"Yes," she repeated, suddenly dropping to his level and pushing at him. He fell backwards, collapsing onto his rear with her in his lap, feeling stunned.

 _Is this real?_

"What?" he implored dumbly.

" _Yes_ ," she stated firmly, and he stared at her with barely concealed wonder. A slow smile spread across his lips as the magnitude of her answer settled in.

She loved him, she wanted to be his wife.

 _She loved him, she wanted to be his wife._

Christine held her hand out, and, holding his breath, he slipped the dainty ring onto her fourth finger. It settled perfectly, a shine of diamond against her knuckle. He could hardly believe she had let him put it there.

Intertwining their fingers together, he pressed his lips to her fingers, grazing the jewel. "Perfect," he breathed, still stunned, and she beamed at him.

Barely able to suppress his joy, Erik buried his face into her neck, arms circling her waist. Christine returned his embrace tightly, weaving her fingers into his hair, her legs settling about his waist. He couldn't speak, he couldn't think—all he knew was that she had said _yes_ , she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

Christine suddenly pulled back, a wide, beautiful smile on her face. "We're getting married," she whispered excitedly, as if she were reading his mind. He nodded slowly.

"We are," Erik confirmed, astounded. An image of Christine in an angelic white dress flooded his thoughts, and he grinned broadly, elated as he had never been before. Soon, that image would become a reality. Soon, they would share a name, a home, perhaps even a family someday.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the feel of her lips against his, hard and unyielding. It was a pleasant surprise, and he returned the kiss with all the fervor he possessed, feeling her nose dig into his skin as he pressed his mouth hot against hers. Warmth flooded through his veins, soft yet burning, tender yet encompassing. She was everything and everywhere all at once; he tasted her breath, felt her body pressed to his, molding every curve against his hard planes. A breathless moan left her throat and he clutched her tighter, letting out a groan when her lips left his to trail warm kisses down his throat.

"Christine," he rasped, curling fingers into her hair. Another groan ripped from his throat when her lips lingered by a sensitive spot beneath his jaw, a spot she always relished in for his reaction.

"We're getting married," she breathed against his skin, a whisper beneath his ear. Oh, god—she felt so soft against him, her body curving towards his, begging to be touched. He shut his eyes tightly, grasping at her hair with the intention of pulling her back.

"I know. Christine—" She nipped at his neck with a graze of her teeth and he felt his breath hitch. He knew this mood all too well; this mood where she would kiss him until he succumbed to her touch, would roll her hips against his until he was dizzy with need. She wanted him, he knew, and felt a wild, unfocused heat within him, one she never failed to inspire.

Somehow, within his hazy, unfocused thoughts, Erik remembered that they were in the middle of an empty theatre, him sitting on the floor with her on his lap. Someone could walk in at any moment and find them like this.

He shouldn't have felt as thrilled as he was at the thought.

"Christine," he tried again, willing himself to concentrate even as she moved her body against his, reaching a hand towards his— _Christ_.

"C-Christine, not here—" He gritted his teeth as she slipped a hand into his waistband. A sharp hiss escaped his lips.

"I love you," she murmured against his jaw, stroking him with a firm hand. His mind ordered him to do _something_ , to reach for her wrist and tug it away before he lost himself completely, but it was too late; he could already feel himself impossibly hard under her touch, ridiculously aroused by her sudden change in mood and the fact that they _weren't supposed to be doing this_. He let out a groan.

"I love you too, but just— _Christine_ —"

"Erik, shut up."

Erik shook his head stubbornly, even as he could feel the tension building within him. His fingers tightened in her hair, and she had the audacity to _squeeze_ him with her wicked hand. He couldn't _believe_ her, but here she was, hand buried beneath the zipper of his jeans, stroking him in the middle of the empty theatre, egging him on with her gasps and breathy moans. Over the two years they had been together, she had proved herself to be quite the daring lover, but she had never done something like _this_ before.

Then again, his Christine took particular delight in pleasuring him when she was happy. Perhaps he should have proposed to her in their bedroom.

"Not here—" he panted, struggling for breath as she sucked at his pulse. Her hand was quickening its movements and he took a deep breath, trying to speak in a steady voice. "Christine, _not here_. My flat is not far, and— _Christ_ —we'll be alone there—"

"We'll go, but not until you—"

"For god's _sakes_ , Christine, y—you can't be serious—"

"Oh, but I am."

"Stop—don't— _Christine_ —"

"I love you."

"Christine, I'm— _fuck_ —"

A long, deep moan filled the room, muffled as he buried his face against her hair, shuddering beneath her. Shaky breaths shook him, chest heaving unevenly as he found his release, golden and thrumming and heated. Then the feel of her lips against his cheek, curling into a smile.

They stayed there for a moment, Erik catching his breath and Christine holding him close, playing with the hair by the nape of his neck. Her teasing hand was still hidden between their bodies, softening him with light, gentle strokes. He inhaled the scent of her vanilla shampoo, sweet and encompassing, and tried to be angry with her despite the ecstasy she had just given him.

It didn't work.

She shifted against him, then pulled back with a bashful smile upon her lips. It was a smile she gave him every time she did something she knew he wouldn't approve of. Idly, he thought it was unfair that she could still manage to look endearing even when he tried to summon his exasperation.

Christine raised her eyebrows hopefully. "In my defence, that was the most seductive thing I've ever seen in my life."

He glared at her. "This isn't over, Christine."

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

Their ceiling needed to be repainted.

There were cracks in the corners, and smudges of black against the cream tint, barely visible in the darkness. Faint moonlight lit up the room in a faded, ethereal glow, tracing the patters of her curtains on the soft cream of the ceiling. Christine stared up at it as she lay on her mattress, scrutinising it with an artist's eye. It was incredibly dull; no lavish lamps hanging, no tiny chandeliers. Her eyes trained over the soft stains and smooth paint, trying to discern details she might have missed—but no. It was bare and boring as always.

Perhaps she should invest in a packet of those glowing stars that Meg had been telling her about. They would surely light up the room, give her something to look at during sleepless nights.

Erik wouldn't like them, she knew. He would probably scoff at the idea and dismiss it, declaring that if he wanted to see the stars, he would look out of their window.

Then again, Erik hadn't been sleeping in the same room as her for _months_. Would he really complain if she stuck stars on their ceiling?

The thought that he might not sent yet another dull throb through her chest.

Sighing deeply, Christine sat up and reached for her bedside lamp, switching it on. Soft light flooded the room, illuminating the darkness and she looked back up at the ceiling, imagining the glowing specks fading into simple, yellow stickers.

No, such stars would not look as lovely in the light. She would not purchase them, after all.

Her gaze drifted to rest, as it always did, on the empty space beside her. The sheets were unruffled, the pillows untouched. She had ceased burying her face in them after a while; his scent no longer lingered on the casing.

Six months since Erik had returned, and things had not gotten better. Her old fantasies of running away from the Soviet Union with him, of creating a life elsewhere faded and dissipated as each month went by with little to no interaction between them. Of course, they would exchange pleasantries and comments on the weather. Sometimes, he would ask her about her day and she would tell him about the reception of their latest show. They bid each other a, "Good morning," as each day started, retiring to their respective sleeping spaces with a mumble of, "Sleep well."

But her Erik was as stoic and rigid as ever, unwilling to speak, to say anything of meaning to her. He still bore that haunted look in his eyes, still refused to touch her when she had tried once more, hopeful that enough time had passed for him to forget his experiences.

Six months and Erik had done nothing. His music room remained untouched, and she had stopped entering to clean the dust away. Sketches of various designs never greeted her when she returned home, nor any of complex mathematical formulas she could never hope to understand. He refused to leave the confines of their flat, and with his stubbornness found that there was nothing to do. She had once asked him if he would want to enrol for another job— _perhaps one in architecture? You've always enjoyed that_ —and he had shaken his head so hurriedly that she worried his neck would snap.

The grief and despair she held for him slowly melted away, replaced by irritation. Waking up to find her husband in the kitchen became a normal sight, and she hardly noticed his bandages anymore. There was no indication that he was in any pain—nothing to tell her that he was disturbed or traumatised. No, he was merely... lost, in body and mind, and while before she had worried over him, now she grew annoyed by watching him waste his life away.

It would be so simple if he would just _tell_ her. Confide in her his thoughts, his feelings—let her know what he had experienced during the war. Before, she had never asked to know about the gruesome details whenever he returned from completing a... task, but there were some times when he would return agitated and tense. It was during these times that she would open her arms to him and force herself to listen to whatever he had to say to her, swallowing back her discomfort to accommodate his need to simply _speak_ to someone. After murmured conversations and long silences, she would feel him drift off in her arms, always eased from carrying his burden.

But now... now, Christine was at a loss of what she could do to help him. It was infuriating, going day by day without him by her bedside, knowing that he was voluntarily curling himself up on the sofa in their living room. Her heart would clench with pained compassion at the thought of him out there, probably shifting endlessly throughout the night to find comfort on the small couch—and then be replaced by red, blinding, sweltering anger, because she _shouldn't_ be sorry for him; he had _chosen_ this! He had decided on their physical separation, was confining himself to a sorry excuse for a bed when she was more than happy to share the one they owned. If he could only look _beyond_ his hurt, see that he was not alone, that she was _here_ for him—

The headboard thumped as she leaned tiredly against it, immediately flooded by shame. How could she expect to understand what he had been through? How could she, when she had been here all along, pitying herself as she slept in an empty bed while he had gone through every night not knowing if he would wake to see dawn? There were many novels about a soldier's life in the battlefield—he must have lost a friend, a partner, seen his allies die, and all she had done was mope to Meg while they conversed over a delicious lunch.

 _Yet how could she know if he refused to tell her?_

And the cycle continued.

She knew that Erik believed she wouldn't be able to handle it should he tell her of his experiences. She saw it in his eyes every time she begged him to let her in. Beautiful, golden, ethereal eyes, once so open and honest with her, now shielded with walls she could never hope to tear down, not without his help.

And she was growing tired of begging for it.

For the first time in her life, she began to wonder if she should leave their marriage. Not because her love had faded—never because of that, for she adored, cared for, desired, _yearned_ for Erik more than she ever had before. She craved his intellectual mind that led to deep conversations, his rare, playful streak of tickling her until she was gasping for breath, his arms nestling around her waist while she baked a chocolate pie. Her body, too, craved for his touch—always so delicate yet tantalising, slow and seductive and loving. Meg could claim to be her closest mate, but that title belonged to Erik and Erik alone; he was her confidant, her lover and husband, her protector, her best friend.

And she was his.

No, she didn't doubt that her feelings had faded; even in the darkest night, her deep, consuming love for him still blazed fiercely.

How did a heart simply decide to _stop_ loving another? How could she quench her blatant want, her uncompromising need?

How could she, when all it took was a simple glance from him for her to feel her knees weaken, her body soar with warmth and tenderness?

This was the love most people only dreamed of; this vicious, slow assault of the soul. He filled her every thought, confused her senses with his shameless intoxication. Throughout the years they had been together, her devotion towards him had never faded. How could she think of leaving, when she loved him so?

 _Because sometimes, love is not enough_ , a voice in the back of her mind whispered.

She couldn't live like this; with an empty shell of a husband, refusing to move on yet desperate to forget. It hurt her to see him so lost, yet he refused to accept her help. He was a hopeless wanderer; no direction, no insight, no purpose—a far cry from the passionate man he had once been.

And she refused to watch him waste away.

A glance at the clock by her bedside told her it was two in the morning. The blanket ruffled as she brought dainty knees up to her chest, burying her face in them. Her bones felt heavy; exhaustion seeped through her very being. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a peaceful night—no distressing thoughts, no husband to worry about. Onenight where she could just find _sleep_.

It seemed as if her body was beyond weary, however, for Christine slowly began to drift away, curled up within herself. Just as she was about to nod off, the sharp sound of a water jet echoed through the room. She jerked awake, startled at the sudden interruption of the quiet night, before realising that it had come from the bathroom. A disgruntled groan escaped her lips. For a moment, she had forgotten her worries, had been able to stop the constant inflow of voices within her mind. For a moment, she had found peace.

 _Well, you won't be going to sleep anytime soon_. She straightened, grimacing as she rubbed at her sore neck. The clock now read two thirty—still leaving many hours before she could leave for rehearsals. Tomorrow would be another exhausting day, with her missing her cues and dropping asleep at any given opportunity. Her only regret was that Anton would be disappointed in her, yet again.

Yawning tiredly, Christine swung agile legs over her side of the bed, intending to use the bathroom. A warm mug of milk and some toast sounded like an appealing midnight snack—she would venture towards the kitchen afterwards.

Delicate wrists pushed off the mattress, helping her rise to her feet. She lifted her arms in a stretch, Erik's long shirt she wore as a nightgown lifting to reveal her thighs as she did so. Her mouth twisted in a grimace; her joints were sore and stiff. Perhaps she should start practicing some of her old ballet exercises again—they had never failed to loosen the strain in her muscles. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Christine yawned once more before padding towards the bathroom door.

It was only when she laid a hand on the doorknob that she realised the water was still running. Erik must be inside.

Her hand paused by the knob, hesitant. Once, she would have simply retreated at the realisation that he was inside, knowing that he valued his privacy. She would have been a good wife, a good friend—one who respected his space, even if she had worked to rid themselves of such barriers as the years passed. Yes—once, she would have let him be.

But hurt clouded her judgement, infuriation claimed her bones. So she could not even use the _bathroom_ now without him locking her out? It was already exasperating enough that he had created an emotional boundary between them, and if he thought he could just physically _shut her out from using her own toilet_ —

Oh.

She stared at the handle, struck dumb as it clicked when twisted. Since Erik's return from war, locked doors had always been a frequency. She remembered the few times she had tried the door when he was inside: the first time with shock at the fact that it was locked, the next few times with slowly building desperation that he was pushing her away, the times after that with frustration that he would _want_ to push her away.

Only once had the door opened to admit her. Once, when she had returned to an empty flat, panicking when Erik never returned her calls only to find him crumpled on the bathroom floor, bloodied and unconscious...

Suddenly, Christine was afraid of what she would find behind the door.

Part of her wanted to back away, to wait for him to finish up before she used the bathroom. She could always head to the kitchen first; her need was not urgent, and he obviously valued his privacy. He would not like her walking in on him.

But another part of her was plagued with the reminder of the last time he had left the door unlocked. What if he was in a similar situation—if he needed her help? What if she left him and found his body collapsed on the floor the next morning, still and cold as the faucet continued to run?

The thought made her blood run cold. Her Erik, dead and lifeless, all because she was too afraid to ensure his well-being.

Her mind was made up. Tentatively, Christine pushed at the door, inching it open slowly. She realised then that she had been holding her breath, and let it out in one sharp exhale. _Why_ was she so nervous? Even if it was nothing, she had seen him in various states of undress before—in fact, had seen much _more_ than that. She knew every inch of Erik's body, and he was comfortable with that. Surely he wouldn't mind—?

Unless he was changing his bandages.

 _No_ , she shook her head firmly, squaring her shoulders. _Whatever it is, I can take it. He's probably over-exaggerating_ — _maybe he's just really insecure about the whole thing. It can't be_ that _bad_ —

Her heart stopped at the sight before her.

Erik stood with his back to her, head bent over the sink and shirtless. His body shook with uneven breaths, shoulders trembling unrestrainedly. Long pyjama trousers hung low on his hips, showing her just how much weight he had lost. She could hardly see over his neck, could see nothing of his face or hair.

His entire back was littered with scars.

Some were deep and gashing, some light scratches. They had faded into light, pink hues, but some were darker, tints that would never fade from his flesh. Faded bruises blemished his protruding hips and shoulder blades; once, they must have been angry spots of blue and purple. Pale, white skin rose and fell with uneven bumps—and— _wait, is that_ — _?_

In the middle of his spine, traced so carefully that they _must_ have been marred by the abuse of a knife, was a written word. Her horrified eyes followed the carved symbols, etched delicately into his skin. The marks sunk deeper than she others, and with wide eyes she realised that it was because his skin had been cut away, so concisely to accommodate for the small letters.

She couldn't ascertain what it meant, but knew that it was written in Farsi. Before Erik had left, he had poured over similar writings in the language, familiarising himself with the method of speech in Afghanistan.

Christine lifted a hand to her mouth, a small sob escaping her lips. Oh, her Erik—her sweet, poor Erik! All this time he had suffered, and she hadn't had the faintest idea as to how much. Grief for him flooded her, an opened watergate that threatened to drown her in misery and disbelief, because _how? How_ could someone do this to her Erik, who had been abused for the entirety of his life—

The sound must have stirred him, however, for he lifted his head sharply at the sound of her voice, looking into the mirror and meeting her gaze.

His face was uncovered, and she cried out.

One side—his left—was completely normal, the face of the man she loved, all high cheekbones and angled features. His skin was pale—but then again, it was always pale—and perhaps his cheeks were more gaunt than usual.

But her gaze was frozen onto his right, unable to believe what she was seeing.

His face...

 _Half his face was missing._

The first thing she noticed was his nose. Half was caved in on itself, exposing the exaggerated cavity of a nostril. She had taken biology in school, studied the structure of a skeleton, but _this_ —this could only be described as melted away, eating at flesh and bone until she could only see a hint of bone. And yet, somehow, the other half was still standing: still straight and proud, long and sharp. Her gaze then traced the disfigurement, resting on his cheekbone—or what was left of it. With vague horror, she realised that it matched the perfect insinuation of the term: bone, but discoloured, with skin stretched and pulled so taut that she wondered if it could even be considered skin at all. Strips of muscle descended from the withering bone, caverns and ridges making up a sallow cheek. And his eyebrow—set in a permanent scowl, arched high and menacing, distorted shape built by the sharp edge of a blade.

Features—distorted, deformed features, a face that was hardly a face. Two sides that sharply contrasted: one elegant, the other... beautifully horrifying. And then, those features twisting, ravaging itself into something inhuman, blinded by wrath and rage and iridescent anger. Golden eyes flashed, warning and furious, familiar yet so disturbingly alien.

 _Who is this man who bears half of my husband's face?_

Terror gripped her fast, and she stumbled in her hurry to take a step back, an automatic reaction to this frightful sight. Bile crept up her throat, thick and scalding as acid, threatening to spill from her lips as her gaze froze on the vivid tissues, the missing chunks of flesh, and she pressed a quick hand to her mouth.

She was going to throw up.

At her movement, he immediately lowered his head towards the sink, blessedly preventing her from seeing any more. Her gaze now rested on his back—his back which she had initially found so malformed, so shocking. She wanted to laugh at herself now, for these scars were nothing— _nothing_ —compared to the ghastliness of his face. Christine let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, still stupefied by the disfigurement she had just seen. The rapid pounding of blood in her ears started to fade, her senses becoming clear once more. With _the face_ out of her sight, she felt her thoughts slowly return, rationality faintly arguing that this was _Erik_ , and that he was still the same.

Yet she couldn't shake the image of his twisted, warped face out of her mind. It was hideous, grotesque.

Monstrous.

A familiar timbre of deep, comforting velvet sounded from the man by the sink. "You shouldn't be in here, Christine." Bony knuckles clenched themselves firmly by the counter, shaking uncontrollably, and his chest was heaving with unrestrained breaths.

Christine swallowed, willing herself to remember that this was _him_ —this was _Erik_. She had nothing to fear from him, even if he did look like—she hugged her uneasy stomach.

"I wanted to—" Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat, trembling as she spoke to the skeletal back. "I wanted to check on you."

His magnetic voice was low, words blunt and unamused even through the wry tone. "And so you have. Go back to sleep."

"Erik—" She took a breath, shutting her eyes tightly. Fear gripped her like a knife, and she tried in vain to push it away, tried to see past the horrifying image that was her husband. With a shaky breath she took a tentative step forwards, instantly jerking to a petrified stop when he flinched sharply. "You're hurt," she said weakly, staring at the scars on his back.

"And as I said before, I've been hurt all along. You seeing proof of this changes nothing. Go back to bed, Christine."

"Erik, I can help you. Let me help you—"

She jumped at the sudden roar he let out, eyes wide and terrified as he slammed his fists down upon the counter. She had seen him angry before, had been in the presence of his fury, but _this_ —this was pure, visceral rage, loud and consuming. Never had she seen him lose control like this, not once in the years they had known each other, lived together. She froze in her spot, too terrified to even move for fear that he would turn around, that he would direct his twisted face towards her—the face that would surely contort in this blind wrath, all missing skin and missing nose and missing cheek.

"You can't help me!" he screeched, his magnificent voice echoing around the room. What was once deep and booming was now contorted, the shrill babel of a thousand banshees. She didn't notice herself taking a step back, didn't notice the hot tears now spilling down her cheeks, but _he_ must have, for he let out a piercing, splitting laugh that sent a revolted shiver through her bones. "No, Christine—you stand there and you cry, and you beg me to accept your help, but you _never understand_ , do you? You never _fucking_ understand that I can't be fixed!" Letting out another strangled shout, he gripped the edges of the counter tightly, fingers clenching into fists.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, barely able to raise her voice, body and mind yearning to comfort him yet terrified to look upon him again. "I'm sorry, Erik—I'm _so_ sorry—"

"Oh, you're _sorry!"_ he spit out, deranged and rabid. _"_ _Thank_ you for your sympathy, Christine; it'll help greatly in your attempts to healme. Oh, I'll be as good as new by tomorrow—soon enough, I'll start functioning like a _normal_ human being again. Oh, _wait:_ I can't, because this _face_ will send everyone screaming!"

Christine shook her head frantically, her limbs flopping uselessly by her side. "Erik, stop it—"

"Don't pretend you're not entirely disgusted by me, Christine," Erik hissed. His head was still bent towards the sink, but she did not need to see his face to be paralysed with fear by him; his voice slithered and roared, mocked and thundered. "I saw it the moment I looked at you. What a life—what a _fucking_ life, where my own _wife_ can't stand the sight of me, wants to throw up when she sees my face—"

"That's not true—"

" _Don't you deny it!_ " he screamed. _"Don't you_ dare _try to deny it, Christine, because I saw_ — _I saw your face! You're_ repulsed _by me, you think that I'm a monster!"_

She was openly sobbing by now, shaking her head, crying, "I'm sorry! Erik, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

 _"Get out!"_ Erik roared, abnormal voice booming around the small bathroom, filling every corner, every space. Christine didn't hesitate to obey, scrambling out of the door as quickly as she could and slamming the door shut behind her.

Once alone in her room, Christine pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide and streaming with tears. Shaky bones collapsed onto her soft mattress, strangled coughs ripping from her throat as she cried and cried and cried.

Her Erik, broken and damaged beyond compare, twisted into some horrifying fantasy by a madman who knew no boundaries. He was demonic in his rage; she had never been more frightened in her life.

And yet, as she sobbed, some small part of her remembered that, while he had shouted at her, not once did he lift his face to the mirror once more.

* * *

 **A/N:** Heh, please don't murder me. I hope you liked the lovely fluff, and we finally have our unmasking scene! Let me know what you think!

Also, dear readers, it would really mean a lot to me for you to leave a review. I know that many of you are lurking out there—I see many follows and favourites, and while I'm touched and grateful that you decided to give this piece of mine a read, it would be motivating and heartwarming to see you leave a review. So, I'll make a deal with you guys: if reviews can get to **52,** I'll put in extra effort to try and get you guys a chapter by this Tuesday!

If you want a glimpse into my thought process while writing (mostly rambles, some songs that inspire me, etc) check out the **After The Storm** tag under my tumblr **halfwayreal**. Also the lovely  thelegitsoprano (thesoprano on AO3) has created a photo set for ATS! You can find this under my ATS tag, as well.


	11. Nothing Gaining

**A/N:** Here's the edited, looked-over chapter for today! Remember, dear readers, our review goal is **67** this time. Once we reach that goal, I'll put up the next chapter. It doesn't take long to say a few words!

And thank you so much for the enthusiastic responses for chapter 10. I really, really appreciate it and as you all know by now, your comments keep me going.

So **review!**

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, The Enemy, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _We will meet back on this road,_

 _Nothing gaining, truth be told._

 _But I am not the enemy,_

 _it isn't me, the enemy._

* * *

 _The room was still, moonlight peeking through heavy curtains. A soft breeze whispered through the air, mist slowly forming on the window. Moonlight shimmered, illuminating the room in a faint glow. It was quiet, peaceful, silent—another ordinary night in Moscow._

 _Two lovers lay on the bed, snoring softly as they curled against each other. The woman, dozing on her back, shifted lightly to face her side, slipping out of her beloved's grasp. An arm emerged from the blankets, subconsciously reaching for cool air. Coffee-coloured curls spilled across one pillow, impatiently pushed away by the same drowsy hand as its inhabitant searched for a more comfortable position. The man, upon feeling his darling move away, unconsciously slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her against his front. He buried his face against the back of her neck, sighing in contentment at sweet vanilla, a trickle of roses within her hair._

 _His lover, however, wriggled against his grip, moaning in her sleep. Often, she loved to reside in his embrace, but would occasionally value her space. She finally blinked her eyes open when he didn't relent. Blue heavy-lidded eyes squinted, adjusting themselves to consciousness, and she let out a soft groan, voice thick with sleep. His arm lay draped around her waist, firm yet relaxed; she would not be able to move away without waking him up._

 _"Erik," she grumbled, voice thick and laced with sleep. Squirming within his tight grasp, she tried to rouse him by brushing against his body. While she would usually try to be as covert as possible when dealing with her sleeping husband, she did not have the patience to now; she was tired and had rehearsals tomorrow, and damn it, she just wanted some sleep._

 _Ironically, her usually insomniac lover slept on blissfully, his body holding hers so tightly that she huffed with discomfort._

 _She tried to turn within his hold, intending on pushing his smothering body away from hers in her impatience to sleep. "Erik," she tried again, wriggling more forcefully in his grasp. Still, he did not budge._

 _Thoroughly irritated by now, she tugged away from him, lifting her body from the mattress slightly so that she could properly face him. A reluctant arm was propped by the side as she pushed her torso up. It took a lot of work, but finally she was facing him. Propped up by her elbow, she took this time to scrutinise him—his smooth skin, long face, sharp nose, thin lips that parted as he slept._

 _Instantly, she felt her irritation fade away—the sight of him peacefully resting was enough to melt her heart. Erik never did sleep restfully; his line of work made him prone to jerking awake at any possible movement, or fitfully tossing as a nightmare claimed him. Seeing him now, brow smoothened as he relaxed in a deep sleep, was enough to blow any exasperation she felt towards him away._

 _As gently as she could, she reached out one hand to cover his cheek, stroking his skin tenderly. Her fingers brushed at growing stubble, and her lips tugged into a small smile—Erik could never stand facial hair, always shaving as soon as he woke. She had once asked him why; he answered that it was unclean to do so. Her endearing, crisp, clean-cut man. Unable to resist, she leaned in to plant a soft kiss upon his lips, slow and savoury._

 _Golden eyes stared at her when she pulled back, alert and flashing. She froze, surprised that he had woken—he seemed so deeply asleep. Warningly, her mind reminded her that Erik was often unpredictable when he woke in the middle of the night. Immediately, she resumed brushing her thumb across his cheek soothingly, opening her mouth to tell him that it was just her, that he was safe, everything was fine—_

 _An unfamiliar texture grazed her thumb where she stroked his cheek and she frowned, ceasing its movements. That was odd; his skin felt rough and calloused beneath hers, and she never quite recalled his cheek dipping like that. The crease by her forehead deepened and she lifted her hand, curious to see what was underneath._

 _She only saw decaying bone, tendons stretched across withering skin, a hole where his nose should have been._

Christine screamed.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

Erik was sitting on the couch he had inhabited for the past few months, strained fingers grasping at thick hair, when he heard her scream.

Instantly, he shot up. His night had been spent awake by the windowpane, staring out blankly onto the dead streets as his mind replayed the scene in the bathroom over and over again.

The nightmare that had woken him, the pain that ripped through his chest at the distant flashback, vivid and blinding behind closed lids. Unwinding the tap with shaking hands, ragged breaths clogging up his throat. Frantically tearing his shirt and bandage off, gripped by the fear that he was suffocating. And then Christine staring at him, cowering before him as he screamed at her, blue eyes clouded with fear and revulsion and unsteady nausea.

He had never felt as dismayed, furious, humiliated, _heartbroken_ than he did at that moment.

 _She saw, she knows, she reacted just as you thought she would: with revulsion._

And yet, even when she had destroyed every pathetic piece of his heart, a tiny part of him still held onto hope. Hope that she would look past his face, that she would remember the man who loved her. The man who desperately craved the comfort she had to offer, even when it seemed he was doing everything he could to push her away.

But all thoughts about the previous night disappeared at the scream that ripped down the hall. Erik tore through the corridor that led to their bedroom, adrenaline forcing him forwards. Suddenly, the fact that Christine's disgust had ripped a hole through his chest didn't matter. There was no thought in his mind, nothing to distract him other than the fact that she was in danger, he needed to reach her, needed to protect her.

He burst through the bedroom door, prepared to find a threat looming at the window or hurting his Christine. He thought she would be on the floor in pain, perhaps struggling against someone.

Instead he found her on the bed, tangled within the blankets as she thrashed around blindly, eyes still shut, trapped within her dreams. Her head tossed around wildly in her sleep, loose curls spread across the pillow, strands hooking by her nose and in her mouth. And her _face_ —forehead creasing worriedly, eyes tightly shut, mouth twisting in fear.

 _Nightmare_ , he thought blankly to himself, then immediately sprung into action.

Striding over to the bed, Erik reached out to pin her down, unwilling to let her hurt herself. She was surprisingly difficult to restrain; he had to firmly grab at her wrists in order to keep her from thrashing about. "Christine!" he shouted, willing to break through her sleep-induced fear. She was frightened, and he frightened because of it—how could _his Christine_ know such horror within her sweet, innocent mind?

The sound of his voice must have startled her even more, however, because she pushed at him with a strength he didn't expect. Taken by surprise, Erik fell backwards onto the floor but not without bringing Christine with him; he still had a tight hold on her wrists. It was difficult to shield her from the fall with her continuous thrashing, but Erik was nothing but determined.

Shaking himself to focus, he swung a leg over her hips, trapping her legs to keep them from kicking blindly. She was letting out little whimpers now, sobs that pierced him deeply and only served to resolve his determination to wake her. With a strong grip, he pinned her wrists above her head, firmly holding them to the floor. "Christine," he repeated forcefully, using his other hand to tap at her cheek none too gently. "Christine, it's just a dream. Wake up, Christine—wake up!"

His commands seemed to have worked; her body froze as she blinked awake, confusedly looking around. The air around him seemed to freeze; memories of the previous night came flooding back as each second passed. He wondered how she would react to seeing him atop her in this inappropriate position: straddling her hips, pinning her wrists above her head, their faces so close together that he could feel her wispy breaths upon his lips—though in the back of his mind, he wryly remembered engaging in positions _much_ more risqué than the one they were in at the moment.

Would she push him away? Yell at him? Cower in fear?

He watched carefully as she seemed to regain control of her senses, cobalt eyes clearing as she slowly readjusted to consciousness. With dismay, he noticed her all too pale skin, her eye bags drooping past little lashes, her lips that seemed to have lost its colour. Eventually her gaze settled on him, staring up as she caught her breath, seeming to calm herself before his eyes.

Warily, he released his hold on her wrists, straightening up and instantly missing her proximity. God, what he wouldn't do to kiss her again—to feel her soft, full lips against his own, deep and wet and—

Christine let out a strangled cry, lashing out at him with grabbing hands. Her eyes were wild and wide, seeming almost desperate as she reached for the strips of his bandages, intending to rip them off his face.

Automatically, he whacked her arms away with his forearm, his defences rising once more as she continued to struggle against him. With a dexterity only achieved by his years as a spy, Erik trapped her arms against her chest, sliding his hips to the ground as he swung one strong thigh against her lower body, effectively imprisoning her against him. Christine was openly crying now, cheeks wet with tears, blue eyes still looking up at him, pleading and desperate.

"Please," she sobbed, shaking her head even as she stared up at him. _"Please_. _"_

He could feel his face twist into a deep frown as he looked back down at her, confused and distressed. _What?_ he wanted to scream. _What are you asking for? What do you want from me?_

She would not be able to see his forehead creasing, would catch only a glimpse of his furrowed brows. All she would see was his downturned mouth, and suddenly he had his answer.

Understanding struck him swiftly, the blow knocking the air out of his lungs. Her nightmare, her eye bags, her frantic reaction to him. Her wild hands, reaching and trying to grasp at his bandages, trying to pull them away from his face.

Desperation suddenly seized him as it had seized her, and he despairingly stared at her, golden orbs now wide and entreating. "You had a nightmare about me, didn't you?" he breathed, his hold on her tightening. She struggled against him but he firmly held her down. "Tell me!" he shouted, velvet voice rising and breaking as she looked back up at him with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes. "You dreamt about my face—had a nightmare about my face."

She swallowed and shook beneath him, refusing to utter a word, but the pleading look she gave him was enough confirmation.

He ripped away himself away from her as if she had electrocuted him, feet instinctively walking him backwards, away from her. So it was true—last night had not been a terrible dream. She had seen his face, had seen his horror and was appalled. She was recoiling in fright as anyone else would. If she— _his Christine_ —the one woman he thought would not reject him, would not shun him could not look upon his face, how could he expect anyone else to?

The realisation that he would no longer feel her lips against his skin, her arms around his waist, was sharp and piercing. She might as well have struck an icy dagger into his throat and leave him to burn in scorching fire, for that was how he felt—breath hot and heavy, veins freezing within his skin, heart slowly stopping as he painfully suffocated. He thought he had known pain when they had left _this_ upon his flesh, had branded him as one of theirs. He thought he had suffered after _that_ , believing that there was no torture worse than the one he had caused himself.

But _this_ —this was _agony._

Christine looked at him with tears in her eyes instead of her heart, pleading with words that never made it past her throat, apologising for something she had no control over. Her lips formed silent _I'm sorry_ s but never said them out loud, could never voice them.

He did not realise that he was still walking backwards when he bumped into the wall, something uncomfortably digging into his back. _The door!_ And suddenly, he remembered that he could leave—that he _should_ leave, he should leave _right now_.

Without another glance backwards, Erik turned and twisted at the doorknob, almost throwing himself in his haste to leave the room. The door slammed shut behind him with a finality that rung through the entire flat.

* * *

 _ **August 1980**_

Two months.

Two months since he had begun spying on the mujahideen, since he had left the comfort of his shared tents and noisy soldiers. There was some hilarity in him considering his previous sleeping quarters comfortable—after all, he'd had to share with bloodied men who stupidly got themselves injured nearly everyday. That tent _stunk._ —but compared to his current sleeping arrangements, the unhygienic tents were a blessing. Now, he was subjected to little rocks digging into his back as he slept with nothing but a single sheet to lay beneath his body. He hadn't packed much, expecting to find the enemy's base, discover as much information as he could about their bases in the other cities and covertly leave. He would then return to the Red Army's camp, relay the locations of the other bases and, if he was lucky, stay behind while the other soldiers infiltrated the enemy's refuge.

His blueprints had, surprisingly, been entirely accurate. The mujahideen's retreat had been in the general location amidst the mountains, where he had predicted it to be. But mapping the base out and navigating through the grounds had caught him by surprise. Of course, Erik had known that reaching the location would take a while, but had never expected it to take an entire _month_. And worse yet—it had been July, the hottest month of the year. He often found himself sweating endlessly as he trudged through, unused to the sweltering heat. The USSR, after all, had generally cooler summers.

He had lived and grown in the back alleys of cities, stealing and taking what wasn't his, collecting and hoarding precious items even if he could not keep them. And then, when he had settled in the USSR, he navigated through cities for an entirely different reason: to locate his target and kill. Cities, he was familiar with; cities were not difficult to maneuver. Every urban area had its own central, its outskirts, its neighourhood where the elite resided. And of course, its dark alleys and back roads—the areas he was most familiar with out of them all.

Yes, Erik was a master of navigating through cities. They had convenient transport, clear roads.

 _Comfortable beds,_ he thought with a grumble.

Afghanistan was the opposite of this. There were no road signs on the paths he had to trek, no motels to reside in after a long day. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had already known how difficult navigating through the mountains would be, yet Erik was weary all the same, irritated and frustrated at his lack of knowledge over the region. He had always adapted quickly, always prided himself at his ability to keep from getting lost.

And yet, many times throughout his journey, lost was where he found himself.

Erik had thought he had never truly experienced relief until he found the base. It was almost inconspicuous—hidden between the valley, camouflaged brilliantly by the trees. He would not have spotted it if he hadn't glanced back for that one fleeting moment. The tents were a clever shade of forest green and burnt chestnut, blending in well with the branches and barks. The grounds were not flat, either—something he had not expected. The Red Army always made certain to choose campsites with the smoothest terrain, seeking comfort after long days of fighting. Perhaps that was why they were so easily discovered.

The river he had followed was not far; the faint sounds of water rushing downstream could still be heard by an acute ear. It was not bright, here—in fact, it was conveniently shaded, allowing relief from the sun's unforgiving rays. It was the perfect base: not easily discovered or navigated, hidden between the rise of large hills, entirely unexpected for where a campsite should be.

If Erik had not been so exhausted, he would have been impressed.

And so, he had spent weeks camping by the edges of the base, taking every opportunity he could to listen in on the soldiers. They were all different: some burly and muscular, some thin and wiry. Many had curly, uncontrolled beards covering their chins; some were clean-shaven and chiseled, with startling green eyes and sharp features that lent them a unique, handsome look. The men of the mujahideen spoke in rough tones, their strange language weaving expertly through clever tongues. He had studied Farsi extensively in the months before he left for Afghanistan, but soon grew frustrated with every conversation. The soldiers revealed nothing whilst sitting around the fire, nor did they while chatting amongst the trees. They prayed together often, bowing to the ground and keeping their eyes hooded, reciting passages from the Quran under their breaths. Some chose to extend these religious sessions after the others left, silent as the chosen _imam_ for the night read aloud from the holy book, repeating the occasional, _"Ameen."_

And when they weren't praying, they were talking about fighting a _jihad_ , about their religious righteousness and fervent belief. Those who weren't as religious remained silent during these talks, navigating through each day with a respectful ignorance, never choosing to outwardly discriminate against those who kept their faith. Erik had been perplexed at their adamant belief—after all, he had never had cause to believe in a God, and communism rejected religion, so how could they worship so confidently? And yet, as each day passed, he became used to the announcement of prayer five times a day, was familiar with the movements as he silently watched from the shadows.

If he was not here to spy, he would have been gripped by the difference in culture, the variation in tradition. It was fascinating.

Christine would have found it fascinating.

She had always had a deep appreciation for culture, for tradition. When they had visited Greece, she had been enthralled by the brilliant architecture, but the legends of the gods had been the one to catch her attention. He remembered as they visited the Temple of Adelphi, remembered musing at her wide eyes, her breathless stupor. Of course, he had lived in Greece for a while when he had been scouring through Ed urope, so he was all too familiar with the gods, the heroes, the mythical monsters. But Christine—she had been absolutely captivated, asking him every question she could think of, eager to learn more about the country rich with mythology.

He had asked her, once, why Greek mythology had intrigued her so. When she answered, curled upon his lap, arm resting around her neck as she played with his hair, her voice was soft—contemplative.

"It's just incredible," she had said quietly on the couch of their rented bedroom, "how different we all are. We all believe in different things—some of which sound plausible, some of which sound absolutely ridiculous. And yet, there will always be _someone_ who believes in something everyone else doesn't, _someone_ who thinks differently from the rest." And then she had laughed softly, shaking her head. "In this case, it's held by an entire civilisation."

"But it's not real," he had argued, pushing her hands away from his face to look at her without obstruction. "They don't believe in it anymore. How could they? It's all preposterous. Gods and monsters, all possessing different powers, sleeping around and breeding half-human heroes?" He had scoffed, shaking his head. "Ridiculous."

And she had laughed, looking at him with fond affection. "You're so cynical, Erik," she reprimanded lightly, cupping his cheek with a smooth palm. He remembered gazing at her, remembered how her cobalt eyes had cleared into a brilliant blue; bright, untroubled.

Happy.

Thinking about her was the only reason he pushed through this preposterous 'mission'. Every night, he closed his eyes and imagined waking up to her body against his, her head beneath his chin, her sleepy, confused smile when he asked if she was truly there. Held onto the hope that perhaps, this was a long, drawn-out dream that prevented him from seeing her, feeling her touch.

And when he woke everyday to scorching heat and no Christine, he forced himself to carry through, knowing that every effort he made to discover information about the enemy would bring him one step closer to where he belonged. She was always on his mind, in his every thought. He mused to himself that perhaps distance _had_ made his heart grow fonder, for he felt his love for her swell more than ever.

Christine—his wife.

Erik had known cruelty. He had been brought up in the roughest of environments, stealing to eat, stealing to live. There were men who influenced his young mind, encouraged him to disrupt order, to kill for the sake of killing. The world wasn't fair, so why should he be fair in return?

And yet he thought there was nothing more cruel than separating him with his _wife_ so shortly after they had married. Barely a year had passed in their wedded bliss—a year of uninterrupted happiness, of constant fulfillment, of everything finally being _enough_. All he had gone through, all they had fought for—it was all worth it when he could listen to her voice singing him to sleep every night, could hold her body to his while they slept.

None of it was fair, but nothing could be done to change the past. And so he threw himself into his work, trying in vain everyday to understand information he could never truly grasp.

But despite this, Erik learnt nothing. The generals remained tight-lipped in the open, the soldiers either naively oblivious or faithfully secret. Not once did he catch word of their bases in the other cities, the progress of their army in Kabul. As weeks rolled by he grew more and more frustrated, waking each day with a sore back and forcing himself to sleep with the disappointment of an unproductive day.

It was frustrating—and when he admitted it—a blow to his pride. He, _the most skilled assassin in the Soviet Union_ , could not do something as simple as spy on the enemy. It was embarrassing.

It was then that he realised he must venture into their tents. It was a risky move; the camp was never truly empty, with always a few soldiers keeping watch. Some stayed up throughout the nights, scanning the trees for any strange movements. If Erik had not already been skilled at disguises, he would have worried for his safety.

He had lost track of the date when he finally decided to risk creeping into the general's tent. He had been tracking the man's movements closely, committing his daily routine to memory, remembering when he would leave and return to his tent. He was a surly-looking, large-boned man, one who was both feared and respected by his men. His demeanor seemed harmless, but some refused to even look at him when he came near. It was how Erik had come to know that he needed to regard the man with caution.

Slipping into the tent was not as difficult as he thought it would be. Luck had been on his side that day: the soldiers had gone to investigate an area, perhaps plot out a new tunnel system or cut through a new route. What had been a busy camp was now silent, with only a few men guarding the borders—and they were hardly observing their surroundings, dozing off whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Stealthily, he brushed through the thick trees that had sheltered him, venturing out into open space for the first time in weeks. It was odd to stand without seeing a bark in front of him, odd to not feel enclosed by stems and branches.

Erik avoided the guarding men easily, keeping low and as quiet as possible. The general's tent was close to the edge of the camp, making it easy for him to reach. Silently, he disappeared within the flaps of the canvas shelter, never leaving any suspicion that it had been breached.

The inside of it was small, with only a single bunk and stool. There was nothing to act as a desk; a pile of paper was arranged by the side of the bed, neatly put away. _Finally!_ Excitement clouded him, the exhilaration of knowing that he had found something at _last_. Eagerly, he made a grab for folders, rolled-up blueprints—anything he could find. He would have to scan them quickly to avoid detection, since taking the documents with him would arouse suspicion and possibly cause them to relocate. His entire mission would prove fruitless if that were to happen.

Carefully, he knelt by the side of the bed, unrolling the first sheet of paper and spreading it out on the sheets. It was a map of the terrain, marking every large rock, every towering tree. An outline of the river was sketched, running long and narrow through the forest. The mountains were named, though he could not decipher the handwriting.

It was useful, but didn't reveal anything he hadn't already known. Letting out a short breath, Erik rolled the paper back up and replaced it carefully.

A bundle of notes revealed the weather forecasts of the next few months. The next few were a list of names of the soldiers in their section, omitting any lieutenants, generals or army leaders. Another was a sketch of their camouflaged uniform. Another showed him a neatly copied passage from the Quran.

Every uncovered document was the same, and as Erik flipped through increasingly impatiently, he discovered that there was nothing. They did not hold any notes on tactics, or the tunnels and routes they had mapped out. There were no names of anyone with a remotely important ranking. He could find nothing on the locations of their allies' bases.

With a strangled hiss, Erik threw the sheets aside. Inside, he seethed. How could they hold _nothing_ on their allies, their comrades, their tactics? All of the information they held would have been useful to him in the four months he had wasted studying their ways, but they were useless to him now. He had traveled so far, risked so much—and all for _nothing!_

Red hot fury sliced through him, boiling and vicious. He had spent _weeks_ frustrated over learning nothing, only to have his hope taken away from him _yet again_. For one fleeting moment, he had thought that this was it—he would find the information the Red Army wanted, relay it to them and coldly state that he would no longer provide them his services. He would force his way home, trekking through the border if he had to. There was nothing— _nothing_ —that could stand between him and Christine.

How was he to declare his withdrawal from the war if he had nothing to give them? How could he return to her if he did not give them what he had promised?

Accepting that he would not find anything else, Erik cleared the area, rolling the sheets of paper back, tucking each note back into their respective folders. He would try again tomorrow, he told himself firmly. Tomorrow he would look through the lieutenant's tent. If what he sought for was not there, he would raid the military leader's tent. And if he _still_ found nothing, he would turn the entire campsite over until he did.

That night, Erik laid his thin coverlet on the ground with jerky movements, still irritated at the failure of the day. He drifted off to sleep with his mouth down-turned, ugly and bitter.

He woke to a pistol pressing against his crown.

* * *

They were burly.

That was all he had registered as they dragged him through the camp, handling his arms roughly. Two scowling soldiers, tight-lipped and stony, shoving him forwards as they moved through the camp. Erik forcefully tried to shake the men off, snapping that he could _walk, thanks very much,_ but they were either dumb or ignorant, since he had spoken in clear, fluent Farsi.

There were onlookers, of course. Soldiers who emerged from their tents in the night to observe the commotion going on outside, clad in nothing but light sweats and undershirts. Some were familiar, some were not. They stared at him as he walked past, still struggling in the grasp of the two men who forced him along. Erik looked up, seething, catching a glimpse of one of the soldiers' faces.

He was taken aback, his grey eyes wide and brow furrowed. He observed Erik with scrutiny, scanning his frame, curious—but not surprised at the scene. A shorter man standing by the side leaned towards him, murmuring, "Phantom," so softly that had Erik's hearing been less acute, he would not have caught it.

The utterance seemed to have begun a chain reaction; others now followed the man, mumbling and gasping and muttering his persona over and over again until it was the only word distinguishable amongst the hushed whispers.

 _"The Phantom_ — _they've caught him!"_

 _"It's_ him _, the Soviet ghost."_

 _"They've got the Phantom!"_

And despite the unfortunate situation he found himself in, Erik could not suppress his smirk. So they knew of him—of the Phantom. They had heard of his kills, been told of the unsettling Soviet legend, knew that he was dangerous.

 _Good_.

The whispers followed as his guards walked him forwards, wafting through the air like thick mist. His name permeated the camp, tossed back and forth between wary soldiers. It was oddly satisfying, the fear that came with his title.

Let them remember the man he was in the battlefield: a cold, ruthless killer.

One of the guards barked out something rough—perhaps in another language, for Erik could not understand what was being said. He fought the urge to catch a glimpse of his captors; their grip on his arms were tight and unforgiving. If he was to try and look, his shoulders would twist uncomfortably—and would probably draw a pained wince from him.

And he refused to let them see him shaken.

So he allowed them to drag him along, making their task as difficult as possible. They were strong, but he was quick. If the opportunity presented itself, he would break free from their grasp and run as fast and far as he could manage. He would not stop for anyone, and if they tried to follow him he would _end_ them.

It didn't matter anymore if the Soviets did not get what he had promised; he was _not_ going to let himself be killed. Death would not seize him tonight—he _refused_ to let it.

 _Damn_ anyone or anything that threatened to come between him and Christine.

But despite everything, Erik knew that he had been careless that night. Every army kept records of their plans, and the mujahideen were no different. It had all been a trap, set up to draw him out of the shadows, to frustrate him by keeping their information from him. And he, the impatient, overconfident idiot that he was, had stupidly fallen for it.

Though why they needed to draw him out if they were already aware of his presence, he did not know.

The soldiers handling him routed through a familiar path, past the central area of the camp and down to a tall tent standing on its own, isolated from the others. As they approached, Erik realised that it was the general's tent; he had always seen it from the back, hadn't known it stood out in such a way. The flaps were open, his quarters bare for everyone to see. It was just as well—Erik couldn't imagine the two burly guards squeezing with him into the confining space. Not more than two people could possibly fit inside.

Several men stood by the tent, their backs straight and solemn, expressions stern and unreadable. They turned as he was brought forward, brows furrowed with frowns, all observing him warily—all except for one.

The man in the middle was not tall, but not short, either. He was bulky, shoulders and arms built out of nothing but muscle even if his stomach showed the slightest hint of a bulge. Sharp, slitting eyes watched him, black and unwavering, menacing without question.

Erik recognised him immediately; his weeks spent observing this man and his routines, his methods, his habits were not lost on him. Hours had been wasted memorising his schedule, plotting the perfect moment to infiltrate his quarters, uncover his secrets.

The General's lips curled into a thin smile.

But his eyes did not crease with amusement, the corners of his lips still unpleasantly downturned. His laugh did not boom with mirth; it sliced through the air, thin and high. The other men visibly grimaced beside him, clearly uncomfortable in the man's presence.

"So _this_ is the infamous Phantom," he observed, raising a dubious eyebrow. Bulky arms folded across his chest and he straightened to his full height—which was, admittedly, not particularly impressive. Erik easily towered over him, even in his restrained state.

He must have noticed Erik's unimpressed expression, however, because his grin merely widened. "Ah, brothers," he addressed the guards grasping at the Soviet's arms genially, "there is no need to hold him so tightly. Loosen your grip, but do not let him go. After all, we do not want him to lose his balance."

"I'm capable of standing without support," Erik growled, glaring coldly at the man.

The General merely laughed once more, shaking his head. "Oh, my friend, you do amuse me," he chortled, waving an idle hand. He began to turn away to face his tent once more.

And then, the man swiftly spun around to deliver a powerful blow to Erik's ribs, driving knuckles into grating bone. A pained hiss escaped his lips, golden eyes careful to shield the flicker of surprise. The hit had been too quick for him despite his sharp vision, too sudden for him to catch.

A strange, unnerving feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he fought against the slicing ache. It was unfamiliar; unwelcome. Unpleasant.

The man merely regarded him bemusedly, lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "Are you quite sure of that, my friend?" he mocked. Erik gritted his teeth as the General stepped forwards, pushing his dark-skinned face close enough that he could smell foul breath. Pitch black eyes bored into his golden ones, vast and without feeling. And then the cutting burn of fingers digging into aching bone, relentless and unforgiving.

Erik managed to suppress his sharp exhale this time, struggling to control his breaths. The man only raised a thick, shaggy brow, twisting his thumb into flesh.

"Jalil," came a voice from behind him, this one flat and tight. Erik let out the breath he had been holding as the General—Jalil— turned, fingers falling to the side. He took the opportunity to close his eyes for a brief moment, unwilling to allow the General the privilege of seeing him discomposed. A deep, shaky inhale shook his lungs, vibrating uncomfortably against bruised ribs.

Golden eyes opened once more, flickering once to observe the surroundings of canvas tent, observing soldiers, stiff men standing by the General's quarters. They eventually settled on the man who had spoken, taking in his brown, coffee-coloured skin, his clouded, hazel eyes. He was taller than Jalil, but not as tall as Erik. Disproportionate lips, short nose, a full head of hair. Thick brows frowned deeply, disapprovingly.

"That is unnecessary, Jalil," he said stiffly. "No need to torture the man. Kill him and be done with it."

While Erik could grudgingly agree with the other man's statement, he could not help but tense at the mention of killing. For so long, he had taken the lives of others, had made money out of their grieving relatives. Countless years of training himself not to care, of disregarding the fear in their eyes as he pressed a knife to their throat, a gun to their temple.

A lasso around their neck.

Yet the thought of his own death seemed unfamiliar and wrong. He could not die, not now—he had _finally_ found love, had rediscovered the value of his pitiful life.

Would they even give him the chance to defend himself? To fight for his survival, as was his _right?_

The thought that they might shoot him as he had shot so many others, without a second thought and without regrets, brought a cold, uncomfortable stab to his chest. He would not be just another body thrown into the river, forgotten and never retrieved.

Christine would _not_ read of his death from a sheet of paper, outlining that his body had not been found, that the Soviet Army sent their most heartfelt condolences.

He had been so immersed in his own internal fury that he did not notice Jalil watching carefully, disproportionate lips slowly curled into a knowing smirk. "Don't want to die, do you?" he drawled, dark eyes taunting.

Erik pressed his lips firmly together.

With a chuckle, Jalil turned to face the man who had spoken once more. "You see?" he questioned, gesturing towards the still firmly held Erik, glaring between the two soldiers. The General threw his hands into the air. "He doesn't want to die, Khan! Why, _look_ at him! Still has a lot of fight in him yet, but unwilling to lose his life for his country. No, this is the face of a man who wants to _live_. Why should we not grant him this? He is young, after all—he has many years ahead of him."

For a moment, Erik's tensed muscles loosened in surprise. Once again, he had not expected Jalil's admission. Was this man truly that much of an _idiot_ to consider letting him go?

Or did he have something more sinister planned?

One look at the General, however, dismissed his fleeting thoughts of being let go. He stared at Erik with a pleased mirth within soulless, dark eyes. The smirk he wore promised many things to come—things Erik did not know of yet, but would soon.

Jalil would definitely not let him go free, but apparently refused to kill him, either.

But what use would he be if they kept him here?

Short fingers wiped at a bearded chin, brushing gleaming, grinning teeth. Gesturing vaguely towards the guards that held Erik, Jalil let out another chuckle. "Bind his wrists."

The men holding him roughly jerked at his arms. Erik stiffened as they pulled and tugged, intending to be as difficult as possible as they struggled to circle his arms with rope. He was not as built as they were, but was still stealthy, and possessed a strength that often took others by surprise. He would not succumb so easily, no matter what they planned to do to him. He would _fight_ against the thought that he might heave his last breath at their hands, might never see his wife again.

"You see, Phantom," Jalil continued conversationally as the guards worked at restraining Erik, their quickening movements betraying their surprise at his quiet strength, "we have been watching you since you had come. It was rude not to pay us a visit, you know—very rude. After all, you and your Soviets entered our soil uninvited and expect us to welcome you while you do so!"

A few men pursed their lips behind Jalil, grudgingly agreeing even as they watched the scene uncomfortably. The General gave a chilly smile. "The most distinguished spy in the Soviet Union, a feared _legend,_ and we discovered you on your first day! Imagine our joy, imagine our pride! And yet, you did not visit. So we decided to wait.

"Drawing you out was simple enough. It was amusing to watch you struggle to look for these," he held up a folded document retrieved from his pocket, and Erik's eyes flashed with anger as he recognised the maps he had been searching for, "in my tent. Shame—if you had found them, you would have surely defeated us."

"It doesn't matter," Erik interrupted, directing the most vicious glare he could manage at the General. His voice twisted into a deep snarl, eerie and hypnotising. "We will defeat you regardless."

Jalil clucked his tongue, but did not manage to hide the flicker of uncertainty within his eyes at Erik's unwavering statement. "Such _fire_ ," he observed with extra force, shaking his head. "Oh, you are young yet, my friend. You do not see that hope is futile, that you will all die for stepping foot onto our soil. But, no matter—I will show you the error of your ways. Soon, you will see how wrong you are."

"The only thing I wish to see is your head on a spike," Erik hissed.

Jalil rolled his eyes, huffing. "Come now, my friend," he bemoaned, almost in disappointment. "You can do better than that!"

"Jalil," the other man interrupted sharply, once more bringing himself to attention. Jalil sighed wearily, then turned back to Erik.

"Khan is getting impatient, so I will have to skip my speech," Jalil said dejectedly. "It is a shame—such a shame. I am sure you would have been quite impressed by it."

Erik watched him distastefully, feeling his hatred for the man grow by the second. He was clearly disheveled, as if bordering on insanity.

Perhaps that was what lent to his unpredictability.

He watched as Jalil gave a shrug in his direction, seeming almost apologetic in his movements. The General held up a finger, as if requesting that he wait.

Then, closing his eyes, the General took a breath. The air around them seemed to thin with an icy bite, chilly and suffocating as the man composed himself, inhaling deeply, with control. It had been silent before, but now it seemed that every observer was holding his breath, waiting in suspense for the General to take action once more. Erik shifted uncertainly by his captors, watching as the man pressed his hands to his skin, measuring the rise and fall of his chest.

Black eyes suddenly flickered open, and Erik heard the observing soldiers behind him let out unsettled gasps. Thick jaw clenched as Jalil stared unwavering at his captive, expression returned to the one he had donned before: gaze cold and menacing, the humour and playfulness wiped away.

It was the face of a man who acted without mercy, of a man who knew no bounds.

And, for a moment, Erik felt his throat drop into his stomach, foreign emotion clasping uncontrollably within him.

He might have thought it could have been fear.

"You think you can call yourself a phantom within our land," Jalil said softly, expressionlessly. "You think you can master our terrain, navigate through our mountains—the mountains whom have only ever been our shelter, our home."

His voice was thin, cold—devoid of emotion yet still somehow hypnotising. Christine had once told Erik his voice had mystical qualities, and, hearing this man's voice at the moment, Erik could not help but think that she was severely mistaken.

For if Erik could manipulate his voice to his will, Jalil was capable of transforming his completely, distorting and convulsing it into something unrecognisable.

"We own this country, Soviet," Jalil's slippery voice continued. An ugly smirk played at his lips. "We are the true ghosts that will haunt this soil long after you are dead."

With abrupt movements, he turned towards the two guards still holding Erik, Jalil snapped his fingers. "Tie him to our dear Nadir's tent pole. Since he was so defensive of our _guest's_ condition, he would surely be more than happy to see to his comfort for the night."

With that, the General swiftly spun around and disappeared into his tent, the flaps aggressively snapping the entry shut as he let them down. The men around him—lieutenants, probably—jumped uncomfortably, taken by surprise at his sudden change in mood, the sharp exit.

Rustling behind him signified that the soldiers were now dispersing, realising that the scene was over. Faint sounds of tents flapping filled the air, the echo of voices chattering seemingly distant to his ears.

For Erik did not spare a glance towards them—his gaze was fixed on the man with the hazel eyes, the man who would sleep through the night with him tied outside his tent. The man who stared straight back at him, never breaking his gaze.

 _Nadir Khan_ , Erik recalled, grimacing. The man who would sleep with a Soviet leaning against his tent.

He had almond-shaped eyes that creased by the edges.

* * *

 **A/N:** Remember a mention from our early days about a certain special guest making an appearance?

Review. You know you want to.


	12. It Isn't Me, The Enemy

**A/N:** Your reviews were all wonderful, thank you so much. I know I promised an update at 67 reviews, but last week was so rough and stuff that really emotionally compromised me came up and I found that I couldn't concentrate on writing most of the time. Still, your reviews were so lovely to read and really lifted my spirits. Be assured that I haven't abandoned this story!

Warning for Erik's sassiness. I cannot handle how sassy he is in this chapter.

Unbeta'd (as usual) and written in the middle of the night.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, The Enemy, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _But I came and I was nothing._

 _And time will give us nothing._

 _So why did you choose to lean on_

 _A man you knew was falling?_

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

Christine stayed in the room for hours.

She could not shake his image from her mind—both his physical visage and the agony reflected in his golden orbs. His twisted cheek, distorted eyebrow, skin cut so cleanly that they resembled slits. Then, the reminder of perfection: half of a straight nose, a sleek, arched brow, unmarred flesh. Lips that once never hesitated to kiss her, to trace her skin and learn her body. Hands that were once confident in reaching out for her, holding her close to him. Golden eyes that once shone with a contented happiness. They haunted her now; taunted her with slithering accusations against her judgement, painful pleas for her acceptance.

 _You're a shallow, selfish human being_ , a voice in her mind hissed. Christine couldn't find the strength to defend herself against it.

Because truly—how _could_ she? She had _known_ that he was suffering, _seen_ the bandages wrapped around his face. It was idiotic of her not to make the connection between the strips of gauze and the horrific mess that must have been beneath it. She should have _expected_ it, should have been more prepared to see something ghastly, terrible, unthinkable, and should have immediately accepted him anyway.

But how could she have prepared herself when half his face was replaced—no, not replaced, but _torn_ , _skinned_ —to reveal stretched ligaments, deranged cavity, the living, breathing visual of what lay between skin and bone?

Christine shut her eyes tightly, the wall thudding as she let her head fall back against it. Thinking about his face no longer brought about nausea, but she still felt a certain uneasiness, a strange, sick feeling in her stomach. She wanted to scream, to cry and shout and rip open her throat and let her vocal chords loose and free until her voice grew hoarse. She despaired for him, she ached for him, she felt anger for him. Anger for all he had been through, anger that she had not been there for him, anger that someone had done this to him. Because this was _not_ the result of a diffused bomb, an accidental flame. She knew enough to realise that this had been _done_ to him, and the thought that someone had dared harm her husband in such a way made her bristle with fury, cower with fear, weep with frustration.

But then she would remember her reaction to seeing his face—her cry of fear, her pitiful sobs, her inability to see beyond his visage—and cringe with disgust at herself. For months, he had been trying to hide this from her, had been stoic and unreadable and distant. She had torn at those defenses without his consent, caught sight of his injury without his approval. And judging by his reaction when he had ripped himself away from her only moments ago, she had reacted just as he thought she would have: negatively and dejecting.

She still remembered seeing the frantic dismay in his eyes, the look of a man completely and utterly shattered when he had lifted his face to the mirror for the first time. Caught by surprise and shock at the sight of her wide eyes staring through him, frustrated by his helplessness even as he mourned over his loss. Broken by her expression, her disgust, her revulsion.

It had only taken her a look—one look—for her to know this, the flurry of confusing, engulfing emotions that gripped his mind. And still, she had shunned him, had made him feel unwanted and hideous.

She hated herself for it.

So, like the coward she was, she had holed herself up in her room, refusing to face him once more. She feared his disappointment, his dismay—perhaps even his hopelessness. She didn't want to see him empty, deathless—a void of pointlessness. A shell of the man he once used to be, the man she had fallen in love with.

This man who was with her now was foreign, unidentifiable. Unpredictable.

She secretly feared that he might finally think that he needed to leave her, that he didn't want her anymore because she couldn't accept him, because he deserved _so much more_ than what she was giving him.

It was two in the afternoon when she finally emerged from the bedroom. Now clad in a soft sweater and cotton shorts, she padded across the silent hallway in woollen socks, comfortable and warm over her feet. Her breaths came out in soft wisps, light and airy as she shuffled down the hall. It was quiet—much too quiet. The air seemed chillier despite the growing warmth that came as winter slowly faded, and she instinctively hugged arms around her chest, comforting herself the best she could. She felt timid, tentative. Unwilling to breach his privacy even if it wasn't his to claim, not in this home they shared together.

But too many things had changed, and Christine found herself thinking about how _their_ space had slowly become _his_ and _hers_. Another drawn line, another barrier separating them.

All too soon, she emerged the turning of the hallway—the one that led to their living room. The room with the sofa and coffee table, the room Erik had inhabited for the past few months. He was probably in there. She could picture him already: either with his eyes scrunched shut, hands covering his face, or simply sitting with a straight, rigid back, staring out the window with a blank, aimless expression. She closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to calm her frantic heart, to wet her suddenly dry throat.

 _You_ will _apologise to him_ , she told herself firmly. _You have no right to feel scared, to act like this when he's the one hurt here. For once, think about someone other than yourself, Christine_.

Her own thoughts were like a slap to her face, and, swallowing down her—fear? Humiliation? Whatever it was that she felt—she called out tentatively.

"Erik?"

No answer.

Silence greeted her, thick and deafening. There was no sudden shuffle of surprise, nothing to notify her that she was there. The air was still. It sent a cold shiver down her spine, one that made her tighten her grip around her arms, wanting to ward off the sudden unpleasant chill that overtook her.

Her arms were not long enough, not comforting enough. Oh, what she wouldn't give to feel _his_ arms around her instead.

The thought gave her a small degree of uncertain comfort.

Christine shook her head, unwilling to think such negative thoughts about her husband. _It's just Erik_ , she told herself firmly. _Just Erik, your husband, the man you love. His appearance shouldn't matter to you._

Clearing her throat, she tried again. "Erik? Where are you?"

The lack of an answer gave her a worried curiosity, replacing the fear lodged in her throat. She found it in herself to venture forwards, to cross into the living room. Her socks barely made any sound against the carpeted floor as she walked. With her breath suspended in her chest, she curled fingers around the edge of the wall that would reveal the next room, heart thudding wildly as she stepped forwards.

The sofa was made, the blankets folded neatly by the side. The bookshelf was made, novels littering the rows in characteristic neatness. A glass of water sat quietly by the coffee table, full and untouched. Nothing was out of place.

Christine let out her breath, her heart stopping at the sight. A rising anxiety replaced her fear, and she uncrossed her arms, letting them fall to her sides. A multitude of questions attacked her thoughts, loud and insistent.

 _Where is he?_ they demanded.

Her inability to come up with an answer brought about a round of panic.

Swallowing, she looked around the room, hoping that he was merely jesting with her, hoping that he would emerge from the kitchen or bathroom or even behind the bloody sofa. "Erik, please," she tried, forehead creasing with worry. "I'm sorry. I just want to talk to you."

No reply. She couldn't hear him anywhere.

The worry was creeping up her throat now, thick and uncomfortable. Her stomach knotted in distress, a flood of uncertainty attacking her veins. She froze for a moment, shock settling in her bones that he was ignoring this way, or worse—that he might not be here.

Christine bolted around the flat, checking the kitchen, bathroom, coat room, music room. She scoured every nook and cranny, glancing out of windows, checking their tiny excuse for a balcony, venturing back into her room even if logic reminded her that he had left it when she pushed him away. She was desperate to find him and his bandaged face, no matter if he was crying or still and emotionless. Hell, at this point she couldn't find it in herself to care if his face might be covered or not—it didn't matter. His face didn't matter, his twisted skin didn't matter, none of it mattered if it meant she couldn't have _him_.

Once she had scoured the whole flat, Christine realised that he simply was not here.

 _He's not here._

 _He left._

The realisation hit her with full force, a blow that punctured her stomach, left her gasping for breath. Suddenly, the air around her seemed to thin, denying her oxygen. Yes, she had known that she had been unfair to him, had misunderstood and pushed away his pain dismissively. In her position as a spouse, she had completely disregarded their vows and focused on her own frustration, her own struggles rather than his.

The consequences of her actions were worse than she could have ever imagined.

Instead of pain, she felt numb. He had not taken anything—she was sure of it. He had not ventured into their bedroom to gather his clothes as per usual, had not packed any of his supplies in the bathroom. The only thing missing was his coat, the hanger bare and naked without the black velvet draping over it.

 _He has to come back_ , she reasoned with herself desperately. _He can't just leave without taking anything of his. He_ wouldn't _just leave_ — _not without an explanation, without a goodbye_.

And yet somehow, she remembered that this Erik was someone completely foreign to her, changed by the effects of war, scarred by the worst of humanity. She didn't know who he was, what he would do or would not do—he was a mystery to her. She couldn't know if he had abandoned her for good, or simply gone out to take a walk.

 _Go outside even if he hadn't been out since he had come back?_ a doubtful voice questioned unhelpfully. Christine let out a shaky breath, pressing her lips together to conceal her sob.

"Okay," she exhaled, fighting to remain calm. There was nothing much she could do, she knew. He could be anywhere at the moment. The same helplessness she had once felt upon coming home to find the flat empty gripped her once again, reminding her of the fear she had felt at the time that he might have gone over his limit, that he was standing by a bridge overlooking the river, that he had given up.

And it was not absurd to believe that she might have pushed him over the edge, this time around.

Closing her eyes, Christine threaded her fingers together and brought them to her lips, a voiceless prayer sounding from trembling breaths. It took her a while to realise that she was speaking, whispering a string of, _"Please, please, please_ ," over and over again.

The empty flat only responded with silence.

* * *

 _ **August 1980**_

His head whipped to the side from the blow across his cheek. With an uncomfortable grimace, Erik lifted a hand to his jaw, flexing it under his fingertips. It felt a little sore, but not broken.

He was aching all over. The night had been spent most uncomfortably with wrists tied to the pole of a tent, the sound of shifting coming from its inhabitant disrupting his sleep; it seemed that Nadir Khan was as light a sleeper as he was. He had tried the knots, using his teeth, strength, toes, even—but it was far too tight, far too expertly knotted that he knew it would not relent. It was frustrating and—dare he admit it?—downright _embarrassing_ to feel such incompetence, to realise that in this aspect, he was completely at their mercy.

It was even more humiliating to think that the aspect that had utterly defeated him was a simple _rope_ tied so intricately that it would not budge. The Phantom, brought down by binds.

Still, he could not wither away in discomfort. So Erik had tried to make do with what he could, knowing that he needed to preserve his strength for the next day. They would not kill him in his sleep—that much, he was sure of. If they wanted to kill him, they would have done so already.

So with weapons stripped from his form, wrists bound in complicated knots and head leaning against the pole, Erik dozed into an awkward, light sleep.

The sound of tents flapping had instantly woken him. Day had just broken, sunlight creeping in through the shade of trees and leaves, spotting the ground with strips of light. Soldiers had begun emerging from their domains, some yawning and half-asleep, some fully dressed and alert. There was not much he could do apart from lean against the tent and assume the most haughty expression he could manage, unwilling to notify his captors of his discomfort. He would _not_ relent, would _not_ allow them to believe that he was at their mercy, even if he was. And when the two men from the night before had approached to unbind his wrists and roughly hoisted him to his feet, Erik followed with a proud and regal step, determined to face whatever they had in store for him.

It seemed, however, that their hospitality towards _guests_ were limited to snarling, hitting and questioning.

Erik turned his head back to face the General with a stoic, cool expression. Jalil had returned to deal with him personally, using an abandoned tent as their interrogation spot. The man was sweating under the scorching heat, magnified by the stuffiness of the tent. His beard was beaded with sweat, and from his position tied to the chair Erik could smell his foul odour. His darkened, charcoal eyes gleamed with maliciousness, streaked with questioning intent. The two men who had escorted him here stood silently by the entrance of the tent, still and stoic, watching with a hardened silence.

Jalil straightened before him, bulky arms folding across his chest as he exhaled harshly. "Stubborn, aren't you?" he observed in a spitting tone, lips curled into a snarl.

Erik pursed his lips, hand twitching uncomfortably under the cord freshly bound around his wrists, stretched so that his arms draped over the back of the chair. "I assume that you _do_ know that you are wasting your time interrogating me," he said snidely, fixing the man a glare. "The men who do often find themselves stuck in... _unfortunate_ situations, afterwards."

The General stared at him, his lips twisted into an unamused smile. "The only man I see stuck in an _unfortunate_ situation is you, my friend."

"For the moment."

The daring answer was met with another blow, this one aimed at his jaw. Jalil may have looked anything _but_ threatening—at least, to someone as lethal as Erik—but there was no denying that his strength was sound. Jaw throbbing, head whipped to the side from the impact, Erik clenched his teeth as he stared at the grimy floor mat. There was a faint taste of blood within his mouth. He wasn't entirely sure if it was due to him accidentally biting the inside of his cheek or if his mouth had suffered damage from the hit. He shifted in his seat, the skin of his arms scraping the wood of the chair he was strapped to uncomfortably.

Jalil let out a dry chuckle above him. "I would have thought you'd have some more fight in you, Phantom," he sneered, wearing a poisonous smirk.

Still facing the floor of the tent, Erik promptly spat out the blood from his mouth before turning his head once more to face the General. "I see no reason to put up a fight," he responded, struggling to keep the rise and fall of his chest steady as he fought back his distaste for the man. It was effective in wiping the smirk off Jalil's face, he noted triumphantly.

He was quick to anger, Erik observed. This man was a contrast to the one who had greeted him the night before; no fake joviality, no malicious intent hidden behind a wide smile. No: this man was ruthless, a master of violence and a slave to his temper. His tangled beard shone with sweat, his thorax heaving with quick, sharp breaths. If it were possible, it seemed as if his murky eyes had darkened to a blacker shade, narrowing to slits. It was obvious to anyone that he was irked. Erik had easily handled men like him before, and was confident that he would be able to handle Jalil now. He would have to be patient, however; there were far too many men in the camp, and they would notice should he strike down their General.

He would need to wait for an opportune moment to rile Jalil up, to play him like he had played countless others. Ensure that he was a master of everyone around him before he struck, no matter how long it took.

And Erik was nothing if not patient.

"Enough," Jalil snarled, and Erik hid a smirk at his obvious irritation. He leaned forwards, spine curling inwards in his movements, leaden eyes trained on golden ones. Erik bit back a grimace at the smell of the man; he must not have cleaned himself in the morning, though _why_ anyone would neglect their personal hygiene when there was a water source nearby was a mystery. Unlike Erik, he had the _option_ of washing.

His internal tirade was interrupted by the General's fingers suddenly shooting forwards, calloused fingers tightly grasping painfully at his recently abused jaw. Erik bit back a grimace, mind instructing body to lift his chin up, both to avoid Jalil and to maintain his dignity. Bared teeth growled at him. "I would like to do this _quickly_ , Phantom," Jalil hissed, snarling mouth inches away from his face. Fingers tightened their grip on his jaw, squeezing the bruise that must have surely formed from punches and surely creating new ones in the process. The pain was uncomfortable, but not unbearable; his unfocused mind could still remember that his legs were unbound, that he could easily lift a thigh and knee the Afghan in his most tender spot.

But the two guards were still in the tent, stationed stoically by the entrance, and his wrists were still bound. They would easily be able to overpower him in his struggle to free himself.

So Erik merely gritted his teeth and let the man mishandle him, containing his anger within his chest. Jalil was glaring at him, and he felt the faint tickle of wiry beard brushing his jaw.

"Your _location_ ," Jalil hissed, tightening his grip. Erik bit back a scowl.

"Why, General, I would have thought you would notice a Soviet in your camp."

Another snarl, a tightened hold. "The location of the Red Army. Tell me where they are."

"Ah—you should have made that clear, before."

"Mother fucker—"

"Language, General."

Jalil tore away from him, letting out a disgruntled curse in Farsi as he ran exasperated fingers through thinning hair. He looked beyond incensed, Erik noted with a concealed smirk. Oh yes, playing him would be simple. _Very_ simple.

At that moment, a clean-shaven young man ducked into the tent, clad in green, camouflaged attire. He must have been taken aback at the sight that greeted him, however, for he did a double take as he took in the annoyed General, the pale man tied to a chair. From his restrained position, Erik noticed his nervous demeanour, fear hidden by a throbbing excitement to do something worth recognition. It was a familiar look: he saw it in the boys who were sent out to war.

It had only ever gotten them killed.

Self-consciously, the young man reached for the military cap upon his head and nodded apprehensively at the standing General.

"The men are ready, sir," he stated warily. An awkward hand reached for the holster by his belt, wanting for something to do with empty fingers.

Jalil turned away from Erik for a moment, pausing in his movements. For a moment he stood, freezing in a thoughtful, almost contemplative position. A hand came up to scratch at his wiry beard, stroking with consideration. Then, as swiftly as he had done the night before, the same hand whipped forwards in a fist and delivered a resounding blow to the roped man's face, the most forceful strike yet. Erik felt his head whip to the side once again, and if he were not taken by surprise from the hit he would have rolled his eyes; did the man not consider hitting him anywhere _else?_ And yet, he saw the true intention behind the strike: his forehead pounded painfully, blood rushing loudly in his ears, and his cheekbone felt uncomfortably sore from being struck in the same place so many times.

"We will continue this discussion tomorrow, my friend," Jalil said gruffly, the warning evident in his tone. Then he abruptly turned away and strode towards the entrance, ducking below the flaps and disappearing from the tent. The younger soldier followed him hurriedly, avoiding Erik's gaze.

Instantly, the two guards began to move towards Erik, none too gently tugging at the rope binding his wrists. He groaned as they roughly pulled him to his feet, shoving him forwards. The light shirt he wore stuck to his clammy chest, the scorching heat striking him as they led him back outside. He grimaced at his sweaty form, his soiled clothes.

Christine would surely have yelled at him to take a shower by now. The thought sent a sharp ache to his chest, empty and unfulfilled.

Thoroughly missing his wife, Erik tilted his head as best as he could without straining his injured jaw, leaning backwards a little to catch the ears of his captors. "I don't suppose you could supply me with a bucket of water, could you?" he requested calmly, suspecting they would not respond accordingly.

He was right; their answer was simply to push him forwards so that he stumbled a little, caught off balance. Pursing his lips together, he grudgingly kept walking and muttered to himself, "Thought not."

* * *

The rest of the day had passed by uneventfully. The camp was empty when the guards had taken him back outside, the grounds silent and still. Only a few remained, spending their time bustling around the camp, washing filthy undershirts, performing prayers when the time came about to do so. It was odd; Erik knew that they were not aware of the Soviet army's location, so they could not have been hunting them down. He idly wondered if they were mapping out the terrain, if they passed time by familiarising themselves with the forest, the mountains. It was disheartening to conclude that such a move was very, impossibly logical of them. If only his own army had the brains to do the same.

The tent they had tied him to for the previous night was empty; its inhabitant—Nadir Khan—must have followed the other soldiers on their mysterious expedition. Erik had to admit relief, though, when the guards did not instantly strap him to the tent pole once more. Instead, they sat him down by a large boulder, each taking a turn to watch him carefully as the other went off to tend to themselves.

Even though the heat was—thankfully—not as unbearable as it had been earlier in the month, Erik still found himself grateful when nightfall came. The soldiers began to return when the sun started drooping in the sky, bathing the camp in a cool, dim glow. The glimmer of sunset painted a peaceful picture of men tiredly returning to their tents, the _azan_ ringing clearly in the air as they emerged in lighter clothing to perform their prayer. White caps sat upon their heads, a direct contrast to their darkened clothes. A warm fire had been lit, its smoke gently wafting through the cool night air. Erik thought that it would have been an ideal camping spot if not for the fact that he was being held there against his will.

If he had not already spent the better half of a month studying them, he would have taken in every routine, every prayer, every conversation with a greedy ear. There was the strange beauty of listening to their _du'a_ , the magnificence of syllables rolling off their expert tongues, foreign and lyrical in nature. He did not feel a pull towards it the way he assumed they—the more religious of the lot—did, but he understood the peace of listening to a prayer. It was a huge change to the harsh sounds of Farsi; speaking seemed unattractive in comparison to prayer.

The soldiers did not disclose any information now that he was amongst their number, nor did he expect them to. It was calming, almost, to watch them without the paranoia of being watched. He could feel Jalil's hard stare on the back of his head as he ate the food given to him, burning and stern, as if expecting him to disrupt their rest, to interrupt the ease that had settled over the soldiers after a long day of what he assumed to be hiking. And yet Erik couldn't find it in himself to be spiteful to these men—these men who were merely boys, the same youthful innocence he had seen amongst the soldiers of the Red Army reflected upon their faces.

And despite his intellect, his keen observation of people and culture, Erik found himself wondering why he never recognised the similarities between the two armies.

Nadir Khan was nowhere to be found when the guards escorted him back to his tent, binding him once more to the pole. Their movements were not as rough, this time; he assumed that they too were tired from the obvious fatigue reverberating from their forms. And for a moment he thought of what it would be like with Christine beside him, what she would say if she saw soldiers bidding each other goodnight and disappearing into their tents, as if there was nothing remotely life-threatening about the situation they were in.

The thought was butchered from his mind as quickly as it had come. Christine would _never_ be put into a situation like this, not as long as he was living. And, if he were dead, then he would haunt the people who dared abuse her until they released her.

He wondered how he would cope without her if he were to die. For surely, there was a realm beyond death—perhaps aimless wandering, perhaps a kingdom of fire. He had often surmised that he was fit for the heat of hell, that whatever happened after death, he deserved the worst of it. And yet, the thought that he would never be able to see Christine again, never be able to touch her, was excruciating agony. The sole reason he kept fighting in this war, that he completed each task as efficiently as he could was because he knew that every step towards the defeat of the enemy brought him closer to seeing her again.

There, leaning against the thin pole in the dark of the night, Erik closed his eyes and pictured his wife in mind. He painted her face, first; soft and defined, apple cheeks and a curved nose, bottom lip that was thicker than the top. He outlined her eyes—downturned and wide, thick lashes framing electric blue. The slight arch of her eyebrow, the paleness of her smooth skin. And then her curls—wild and brown, tousled without order, flowing from forehead to chest. He saw her body in his mind: slight and lean, a dancer's build toning her thighs, her arms, her stomach. Her curves that both captivated him with awe and arousal. She was smiling at him—his Christine. He ached for her with his mind, his body, his voice, his heart.

He vowed to return to her soon.

He must have fallen asleep whilst lost in his thoughts, however, for it was dawn when he woke. Something was shaking him, rousing him from the most pleasant sleep he'd had in months. The sweet ecstasy of Christine faded as his ears registered the sounds of crickets, the faint rustle of flapping, the distant rush of water. Warm air brushed at his cheek, hot and humid, and he remembered that he was not with his wife but _here_ , held captive by the men of his enemy. A sharp ache began to make itself known to him, his jaw and cheek throbbing painfully, thighs and back and arms uncomfortably sore from leaning against the thin pole as he slowly gained consciousness. He let out a groan of irritation, unwilling to open his eyes yet knowing he must do so.

And then he shot awake when he remembered where he was, golden eyes snapping open and landing on the image of a tanned, frowning man crouching beside him.

Erik blinked and the man— _Nadir Khan_ , his waking mind reminded him—immediately straightened, though he didn't rise to his full height. His cropped hair was mussed from sleep, circles under his eyes dark and drooping. "I apologise," he said, and Erik blinked once more at his courtesy, "but I thought you might appreciate me waking you rather than... them."

His lips curved into a faint smile, unsure and hesitant, and his hazel eyes blinked as they met his, open and honest. Erik uncomfortably shifted away from the man, taken aback by his consideration. He knew these men—these men who befriended their captives, who made them believe in hope once more before it was violently ripped away.

From his hesitance and unsure kindness, Nadir Khan seemed like the kind of man who would pull such a stunt.

Erik grunted, straightening against the pole he was tied to. "Will you be watching over me today, then?" he questioned roughly, refusing to meet the other man's eyes.

Khan must have recognised his unfriendly tone, however, for he dropped the hands that seemed to reach out for him and rose to his feet. "Not exactly," he mused above Erik, sounding detached and professional once more. "We all will be."

Erik frowned, looking up at the man in surprise. "What?"

The Afghan merely shrugged and said, "We are moving camps. I hope you've had a good sleep, because we'll be doing a lot of walking today. And knowing Jalil, you will surely be blindfolded."

Khan's words proved themselves true: as soon as Jalil had emerged from his tent, he had barked orders at the guards to hoist Erik to his feet and wrap a strip of cloth around his eyes. The General seemed jovial and lighthearted once more, greeting him with a cheery, "Morning, my friend!" and calling out for the others to wake. If he did not have the blindfold over his eyes, Erik knew that he would have seen the man smiling widely, teeth gleaming in the sunlight. Judging from the exasperated huffs and sighs that followed, the other soldiers were not as delighted by the upcoming walk.

Their journey began shortly, after a young-sounding voice (Erik assumed it was the same soldier who had witnessed the scene of his 'interrogation') called out that nothing was left behind. Stripped of his sight, Erik listened to the sounds of shuffling, leaves crunching beneath large boots as they trudged forwards. He felt the occasional jab at back, from who he assumed to be one of the two guards assigned to watch him. It was no use causing a scene amongst such a large group, he knew, so Erik grudgingly walked forwards, using boot to nudge at fallen twigs and roots, listening to the sound of voices to ensure that he was heading in the right direction.

It was impossible to discern where they were heading. Forests and mountainous areas were already foreign to him, but now that he relied merely on scent and sound and touch, he could hardly make out where they were going. There was no significant root that felt strange under his boots, no rush of water to signify that they were nearing another river. There was just the walk forwards.

The air was cool by the time they began to slow in their steps. Erik shifted for the thousandth time against the bindings holding his wrists together, trying to tug them away to no avail. For all the strength he possessed, he could not defeat a simple piece of rope.

It was embarrassing.

All around him, soldiers sighed in relief. Bags and rifles and knapsacks thudded to the ground as the men began to make camp, the sound of tent material scraping against the casing as they pulled the essentials out of their bags. Erik listened to the scraping of rock against rock, the light thud of wood tossed to the ground, the barked orders in sharp Farsi. It was busy, yet organised.

His thoughts were diverted as he felt someone move behind him, human presence clear and hot, the rasp of breath against his neck. He clenched his teeth as hands began to reach up to his head, bracing himself for an attack—

And felt the blindfold drop from his eyes, draping around his neck like a scarf. The sudden exposure to light—although dim, now, since it was evening—was blinding after only seeing darkness the entire day. It took a moment for him to readjust, the scene before him looking blurry and unreal, his eyes squinting from the effort as he struggled to focus.

The camp looked exactly like the old one: tents set up all around, uneven ground beneath his feet, trees bordering them, a source of protection against the outside. Soldiers were rushing about everywhere, busying themselves with tasks and chores. A fire was being set up in the middle of the field by two younger men; an older, gruff-looking one stood towards the side, chopping at wood with a sickle. Their voices melded into a buzz of Farsi, quick and concentrated and labouring.

He thought he might have felt his heart drop into his stomach.

The Soviets, he knew, were not skilled in their tracking skills. It was why they had brought him here in the first place, why they sought his expertise. Mapping out the land, pondering over possible locations and bases—it had all landed onto Erik's capable shoulders, pushed onto him by eager generals who were unfamiliar with his craft. He had done all the work, had slaved over every possibility.

They would not be able to find this camp, not without him.

The thought made him bristle with annoyance. How utterly _incompetent_ of them, how _foolish_. Did they not contemplate the danger that he might be compromised? How were they to track down their enemy _now?_

His internal tirade was interrupted by the feel of calloused hands grabbing at his arm, dragging him towards a tent at the edge of the camp. Erik grudgingly followed, but not without putting up a struggle, spitting at his captors to give him the decency to at least _walk_ on his own.

When he emerged, his skin was discoloured. Purple bloomed on the flesh of his bicep, the same bicep being gripped by one of his guards as they roughly pushed him forwards. The uneven ground caused him to stumble a little, and he winced at the sharp pain in his stomach, where Jalil had been generous in delivering blows. His question rang in Erik's mind as he staggered forwards, clear and insistent.

 _"Where are they, Phantom? Where is your army? If they are hiding amongst us_ —"

 _"General, you have just moved camps. How would they know where to find you?"_

 _"They could have followed!"_

 _"If they had, you would be dead by now."_

Jalil had not been too pleased with his answer; the ache in his torso was proof of that.

Instead of leading him to a tent this time, they began to guide him towards a tall tree. It had a wide trunk, but Erik grimaced at the sight of the unruly roots littering the ground. They were sharp and protruding—surely uncomfortable, but he would make do with what he had. It was better than sleeping against a thin pole, anyway.

He settled against the tree, sighing tiredly as the guards began to tie a rope around his torso, linking him to the trunk. It was late, however, and he was too exhausted to complain, so he remained silent while they performed their task, shifting to find a more comfortable position as they did so. They left him shortly after, retreating to their own tents as the camp began to quiet around them, the soldiers clearly weary from the events of the day.

He only realised that he had begun to doze off as well when he felt the hand shaking his shoulder, then the trickle of cool, blessed water against his chapped lips. Half-conscious, he parted his mouth to consume the liquid, moistening his dry tongue and parched throat. He swallowed until there was nothing left to swallow, golden eyes lidded and heavy, head tilted back against the rough tree bark. His bones were weary, his flesh beaten and aching, but at last, he felt content, that he could drift away without being subjected to thirst, without being distracted by his needs.

He caught the slightest glimpse of hazel eyes before he surrendered to the sweet darkness of his mind.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

He had not expected to see her upon his return.

Perhaps that needed a rephrase: he hadn't expected to see her sitting _there,_ on the sofa he frequented as a bed, his blanket thrown around her shoulders and wrapped around her curled form.

Erik quietly slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him softly. She was sleeping, again, and he had no wish to wake her. He remembered what had happened the last time he had tried to wake her—the frantic sobbing, the wild grabbing of his bandages, the haunted look reflected in clouded blue eyes. Thinking about it didn't bring the excruciating pain it once did; he only felt numbness, now. Numbness and emptiness.

He found it difficult to think that it had only happened this morning. It had seemed like an eternity ago.

Leaving the flat had been surprisingly easy after the recent events that had taken place. Christine's horrified face, the scream tearing from her throat as she dreamt about _him_ was enough to drive him out of the door. All thoughts of his insecurity, the people who would stare at him faded away, replaced by the fresh image of his wife cowering in terror before him, tears streaking down her face as she tried to plead with him, apologies she didn't understand pouring from her perfect lips. The fear he had developed was replaced by sharp, stinging dismay, a pain more piercing than anything he had ever felt before. All he had known at that moment was that he needed to get away from her, and he needed to do it _now_.

As soon as he had stepped out of the flat, he was met with stares. Everyone openly gaped at his bandaged visage, his frazzled panting, his unkept hair. The coat he had thrown over his form was not fully buttoned but he pushed on, never pausing in his step as he surged forwards, determined to return to a place he knew didn't exist anymore.

Her arms, her lips, her hair caught in his mouth as she sighed against him. Never again would he feel her, touch her, be able to love her.

Her, his wife, the woman he fiercely and unshakeably loved with all his heart.

 _Christine_.

The stares didn't matter anymore. _None_ of them mattered to him. He walked forwards, unused to the cooler weather from his months _there_ , even if it was nearing summer in Moscow. He felt vulnerable to everything, at that moment: to these open-mouthed people who gawked as he rushed past, to the breezy air he had once considered warm and now shivered in, to the memory of Christine catching a glimpse of his face, her hand clasped over her lips in horror, cobalt eyes wide and revolted.

She didn't love him—she couldn't. He knew that now, and he didn't blame her. How could she? His face was mangled, ruined by a man who was mad and sadistic in his power. He had returned to her bruised and broken, tender both physically and mentally, shutting her off when all she had wanted to do was help him. He remembered her eagerness to resume their easy relationship, her determination to heal his wounds, and he had disregarded her attempts.

But his wounds could not be closed, no matter what she tried to do. She had been presented with an impossible task upon his return, and with a sharp ache Erik knew that she had surely realised it by now.

Why bother trying to fix something that was eternally ruined?

He hadn't intended on returning that night—not when she was so clearly disgusted by him. He would only add fuel to her dreams—had already visited her nightmares. She surely wouldn't miss him if he were to stray for one night. It would be better if he was to leave her for now.

Or, maybe—would she be better off if he were to leave her for good? She would be able to focus on herself, with no need to care for her broken husband. His troubles would not be hers, anymore. She would be light, free—the angel he had known and fallen in love with once more.

Perhaps if he hadn't looked up, hadn't realised where his feet had taken him, he would have stayed away.

The empty alley hadn't changed since he had last visited it. The lonely lamppost still resided in the space, quiet and looming. The cobbled path was perhaps more worn out from the many boots that must have walked towards this area. He could almost imagine it: eager opera-goers, drawn into the mystical element of his angel's voice, entranced by her beauty and wanting to congratulate her for themselves. Their excited laughs, nervous thoughts, eager hands grasping hers and shaking firmly.

Enchanted by her as he had been three years ago.

The thudding of his heart had begun to slow as Erik approached the stage door. His thoughts were not frantic, now, his demeanour composed. There was nothing on his mind apart from the need to lay his palm against this door—this door that had revealed herself to him that first night at her stage debut, the door that shattered the barricades within his chest by showing him a smiling, breathless angel. He remembered her radiance as she soared on that stage, felt her joy as strongly as she did while he watched in that box, pristine and immaculate and starstruck.

That first night when he finally, _devastatingly_ , learnt how to breathe.

Slowly, without hesitation, he lifted his hand, taking sure, steady steps towards the archway. The door was painted a dark brown, paint chipped at the edges, worn out from years of use. Resting his palm against the wood did not shake him, unravel him as he thought it would; rather, there was a long moment of silence, of utter stillness and contemplation.

This door, the one that had swung open to reveal her to him for the first time. This alley, where he had waited night after night just for the pleasure of walking her home. Her tentative smile, his instant infatuation.

It was at that moment, facing the door, hand pressed against chipped brown paint, that he realised it had been her, was her, would be her for as long as he would live.

Erik and Christine, Christine and Erik. One without the other was unimaginable.

And so he had turned and headed back to their home, shaken but determined, a man changed and yet, still madly in love.

The image of her now, curled up in his blankets and sleeping on his sofa, brought an ache of tenderness to his chest. Erik silently slipped off his cloak before approaching his sleeping wife, careful to ensure his steps were light lest he wake her. Her curls spilled across the fabric of the sofa, her fingers hidden beneath tightly clenched fists, unwilling to part from his coverlet. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing slightly ragged. Dried tear tracks littered the smooth skin of her face.

And as always, he felt himself melting at the sight of her. How could he consider leaving his beloved, his darling girl? She was everything to him—his saviour, his salvation, his mercy. He loved her with his entire being, and loved her even beyond that. There was no name to this feeling, this encompassing, breathless fervour that left him in a stupor, silent and dumbstruck by the magnificence of being able to witness the rise and fall of her chest.

It was then that he knew he could not leave her. If she refused to love him, did not love him anymore, he would accept it with a pierced heart and broken soul—but he would not leave. He did not have the strength to. Let her cringe with disgust at him; it was unfair to think that she would accept him when nobody else could. None of it mattered to him anymore. He would linger by her side for all eternity, and if she sent him away he would watch from the shadows until she took her last breath.

They were inexplicably, inevitably linked, and he could not, _would_ not let her go.

Careful not to wake his wife, Erik bent and mindfully slipped his arms below her form and slowly lifted her from the couch.

Holding her once more in his arms was like finally feeling sunlight upon his skin after being confined underground for years. Her body was soft against his, her curves pressing to his in a manner that felt delicate, that felt _right_. She was warm, familiar. Home. She refused to part from his blanket, so he tucked it around her, resolving that he would find himself something else to act as a duvet. With quiet steps, he began to walk towards the bedroom, relishing in the way she curled against him, her fists lightly nudging at his chest, the warmth of her breath misting against his shoulder.

It was simple to maneuver through the door; a simple nudge from his foot and it relented, allowing him access. Quiet steps echoed in the room as he crossed to the bed, still holding her light, full body in his arms, relishing in the way she curled against him. With a tenderness that traced his bones, he laid her down, gentle and careful in his actions. It was only obvious that he would tuck the covers around her, ensuring that she was well wrapped within her cocoon of blankets—though a small part of him leapt with joy when she moaned and tugged his blanket tighter to her form despite the mound of blankets offered to her, refusing to let it go.

For a moment, he lingered in the room, desperately wanting to find something else to do for her. Fluffing her pillows, stroking her hair—anything. Any excuse to stay with her a moment longer.

It was when he finally let out a resigned sigh, turning to leave the room, when she had grabbed his hand.

"Stay?" a sleepy Christine mumbled, voice thick and heavy with sleep, honeyed and low.

And, turning back to face her once more, Erik felt his heart start to beat again.

* * *

 **A/N:** Edited and looked over. It would be really nice if we could get to **82** reviews this time around..? I promise on my brothers that I'll try my very best to update next week!


	13. Your Light

**A/N:** Wow, this chapter is long. And when I say long, _I mean_ long: it's over 9,500 words. Should keep you lovelies satisfied for a bit, I think. Still, I'm aiming to update next week, so you shouldn't have to wait too long!

As always, thanks for all the reviews and kind words. We're almost to a hundred, so if you could drop a few more to help me reach this milestone, I'd really appreciate it! Have a roller-coaster of a chapter as a reward.

A note to say that the second section of this remains unedited. I will try to tackle this as soon as I can.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Reminder, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _And your light's always shining on,_

 _And I've been traveling oh so long._

 _I've been traveling oh so long._

* * *

 _I burned so long, so quiet, that you must have wondered if I loved you back. I did, I did, I do._

— Annelyse Gelman

* * *

 ** _September 1980_**

His routine, though uncomfortable, was getting incredibly, boringly predictable.

Each day would see him shaken awake by some soldier—be it a young boy, one of his appointed guards or occasionally Nadir Khan—and be given a small amount of food to eat. A slice of bread, half a can of beans, a wrap of some kind. He would eat; wasting away was _not_ an option, not when he needed his strength to be able to return home. He would then be escorted to Jalil's tent and bound to the same wooden chair—a chair he had come to call his own—and be interrogated about the location of the Soviet camp, their tactics, their ways. Each time was as unsuccessful as before, and each session left Erik with a new litter of bruises marking his skin.

It wasn't like him to need to be woken up, to accept food given to him and grit his teeth with every beating Jalil handed to him. He had always been alert, waking at the slightest movement, stoic and unshaken through every ordeal. And yet being a captive had somehow removed every care from his mind—every care apart from his wife, of course. She was the one constant, his guiding light through this entire ordeal.

Still, he knew that the Soviets would not risk a rescue mission for him, nor would he expect them to do so. It would be unlikely that he was to see his nation's soldiers again, and so he dropped pretences of ever being loyal to them.

Because the truth was, he wasn't. He was loyal to one woman, and one only—Christine. _She_ was why he fought to overcome every challenge set to him, _she_ was the reason he was fighting to survive in the camp of his enemy.

So he assumed an uncaring persona because Jalil would not be able to break his defences that way. Every snarky comment, every jab at the General was always given after deep consideration. He could not push this man too far—not this unstable, unpredictable man. Erik had no loyalty to his army, but did not want to reveal their whereabouts, either. He could not allow the mujahideen to win this war, but he could not show any hint of fear that this might happen. He had to know when to push, but also know when to draw back, to avoid the possibility of a deathly blow.

His life was something he could not risk.

It was impossible to discern what Jalil's mood might be in at the beginning of every day. The man was quick to anger, sorely fussy and fiery at times, sometimes jovial and light-hearted. He was spiteful and sadistic, a caring killer. Erik saw it in the way he moved, how easily swayed he was.

He wondered if, perhaps, the man had mania. There were psychiatrists in the West, he knew, who had conducted research on such people. Those who experienced inconsistent dispositions, who made decisions on a whim. Erik had never come across any before, but had enough knowledge to know of the elevated moods, the sudden periods of anger and depression. Jalil showed all of the signs.

Could he be?

It would explain his sadistic nature, his constantly changing moods. Such a disorder could almost make Jalil seem blameless in this whole ordeal, a victim of a condition he had no control over. There were no doctors here who could medicate him, nobody to treat him the way he should have been treated. Nothing that could be given to control his behaviour, his violent outbursts.

And yet, it did not excuse his actions. He was still to blame, no matter how ill, no matter how unstable. For once in his life, Erik was a victim, and for once in his life, he did not deserve to be at this mad man's whim.

It infuriated him beyond belief.

The day greeted him with a rude awakening, as it always did. Erik grumbled, opening his eyes and nodding to whomever had been sent to signify that he was getting up. He began to come to awareness; feeling the warmth of the sun upon his face, registering the uncomfortable log he was leaning against. There was nothing out of place—nothing to imply that anything was amiss.

Until his senses cleared to reveal the sounds of hushed whispers, orders being barked out, the sounds of hurried footsteps crunching dead leaves. He blinked golden eyes open, sharply taking in his surroundings.

As expected, soldiers were rushing about; some shifting uncertainly by their tents, most gathered by the General's domain, running errands or taking orders. Tanned faces shone with sweat, yet the men still insisted on donning their full uniforms, though some had folded their sleeves. Their shirts were clean—or as clean as clothing could be when in the army—so they hadn't yet ventured out of the camp, hadn't been tasked with an assignment yet.

What was it, then, that encompassed the air with a thick feel of uncertainty so early in the day?

Erik subconsciously twisted at his bound wrists, straightening his spine as he took in the confused surroundings. Attentive eyes observed the gathering by the General's tent a distance away from where he was bound, noticed how they seemed to be standing in a wide berth, looking at something just beyond their feet. He inched forwards as far as his ties would allow, hoping to catch a glimpse of what it was that had them so stunned, so frenzied.

He was also consciously aware of the stares being directed his way. They had always stared at him, of course—the pale, skinny, lanky man who called himself the Phantom; a fabled Soviet legend brought to life before their eyes. This time, however, they were unusually persistant. Those of whom he had caught gaping had quickly diverted their gazes, almost as if in uncomfortable fear. It only made his forehead crease in a frown.

He was so engrossed by the scene before him that he did not realise his ties were being undone by the same man who had woken him. Erik startled at the feel of loosening rope, turning to look at the soldier currently at work. He was a younger man—working at his binds with shaky hands, trying to free him as quickly as possible. There was no bread offered to Erik, this time, no water to wet his dry lips. There was only this soldier's hurried movements, his obvious inexperience.

"Boy," Erik spoke in clear, fluent Farsi, and the young man sharply met his gaze. His hair was lighter than the others, lighter than Erik's own, even—a curious mixture of brown and blonde, streaks illuminated by the sunlight. He had an honest mouth, soft features, but what struck Erik most were his eyes: a startling shade of oak green, vibrant and piercing.

He was young—too young. A child playing in a field of murder.

Erik consciously softened his tone, but was careful not to lose his gruffness, intent on maintaining authority despite his status as a captive. "You need not fear me," he said—no, ordered—the boy.

Russet, reddish-brown throat swallowed before his eyes—the boy was clearly nervous.

The older man watched him carefully, chancing a quick glance towards the gathering to ensure they were not being noticed. When it was clear that the group was otherwise occupied, Erik turned back to the boy, regarding him with an unreadable expression.

"Tell me what is happening."

The boy's forehead twisted worriedly, his demeanour obviously anxious. "I don't—I'm not—"

"How old are you?" Erik interrupted, inquisitive.

"What?" the boy questioned, taken off guard, before instinctively answering, "Seventeen." A darkened hand immediately reached up to press against his shocked mouth, and his eyes widened, obviously not intending to give that detail away.

 _Barely even grown,_ Erik mused, still intently scrutinizing the boy. _Still a minor._ Was he an enthusiastic volunteer, or another lad drafted into war? Did he leave sobbing parents behind, a mother who was uncertain of ever seeing her son again?

Did he, too, desert a faithful lover, not knowing if he would ever feel her arms around him again?

Erik sighed, shaking his head. Everything about this was unjust; a chess game of pawns sacrificing themselves to protect a king undeserving of their lives.

The boy crouched before him unsurely, watching him with an openly hesitant expression. "They want me to take you to them," he said apprehensively, making a vague gesture towards the gathered soldiers.

Erik immediately dismissed thoughts of sympathy towards this boy, focusing once more on the situation at hand. There was nothing to be done about the young man, after all—his thoughts would be more useful when directed towards the circumstances around him. Sympathy and laments would do him no good. "What is it they want?" he implored sharply.

The boy jerked away, startled by the sudden change in tone. Once again, he was doubtful, unwilling to give an answer. Fearful of obeying orders. "I shouldn't say—"

"What is it?" Erik pressed, impatient curiosity clouding his thoughts. He was no longer strapped to the tree, but his wrists were still tightly held together by rope, merciless and unwavering.

The boy hesitated. "They found—"

"Zahir!"

The boy—Zahir—whipped his gaze from Erik's, his entire manner panicked. One of the bearded men from the group—Erik vaguely recognised him from the night he had been caught—was impatiently beckoning for Erik to be brought forwards, his gestures jerky and stern, a clear order. Zahir quickly stood, grabbing half-heartedly at the sleeve of the captive's loosely hanging shirt, tugging him to his feet. Erik sighed and wearily complied, standing and following the boy forwards, half exhausted, half intrigued at what had unsettled the Afghans so.

As they neared, the tightly packed group of men seemed to part, stepping backwards instinctively. They gazed at him with a wary guardedness, increased suspicion in twenty clouded eyes. His uneasiness was growing as he approached. Zahir no longer guided him, instead lurking behind as he walked towards the gathering. Erik hardly noticed the eyes, now, entirely burning with the desire to _know_ what was happening around him, what had the lieutenants and colonels with their heads in their hands, agitatedly scratching at their stubble. He quickened his pace and the crowd moved apart from him, revealing what had been hidden from his eyes.

He stopped short at the sight before him.

It was a dead body.

Or, more specifically, it was a dead body of a _Soviet_ soldier.

His uniform could have been mistaken for one ranking from the mujahideen; a dark shade of army green, vest with holsters, utility belt strapped to the waist. It was sullied with mud which, Erik presumed, had tainted the material when he had been dragged towards the camp. Their boots were vaguely similar, dirt covering the area where a small red star would have been seen. He was just another man, another casualty of the war. He could easily be mistaken for a man from the Afghan army.

Save for his pale, white skin, his shock of blonde hair revealed beneath the fur-grey head covering he must have worn, the mark of an authoritative figure.

It was a shock to see one of his people after so long of being surrounded by men with exotic, darkened features, so different and unfamiliar to his lifestyle. The Arabs were a people distinguished from the rest of the human race—set apart by the colour of their skin, the language they spoke, the manner in which they carried themselves. He had never come across such men before, not even in his vast experience scouring through Europe.

It was a shock infused with numbness to see one of his people after months in captivity, dead before his eyes.

Erik stared at the dirtied body, obviously having held weapons to its form, weapons that were most likely stripped as soon as the dead man was found.

There were no marks upon his skin, no blood tainting his uniform. He must have bitten into the tablet given to a select few Soviet soldiers, hidden beneath the guise of a tooth, upon hearing the approaching Afghans. His death would have been instantaneous.

He wondered what the man had been doing in the first place. Had he been searching for tracks, for a hint of their enemy's location? Had he replaced their Phantom—their Phantom who had been missing for months, who they probably assumed to be dead?

The thought that he might have been replaced sent a cold, icy spread through his veins.

A loud snarl interrupted his thoughts and Erik looked up, meeting the gaze of an infuriated, livid Jalil. His eyes were fierce, bold—dangerous. He had been caught off guard, had discovered his enemy venturing closer towards the grounds than he would have wished.

This was the face of a man uncontrolled and feral, deadly as sin. The men around him seemed to shrink in the face of his anger, destructive and obsessive.

"Do you recognise this man?" Jalil asked roughly, furious black eyes trained on his. He was standing a little away from Erik, separate from the rest of the men gathered by the body.

Erik let himself look down at the body once more, carefully taking in the round face, the half-lidded eyes that revealed a hint of grey. No—for the life of him, he could not recall this man's face, his position within the Red Army. Still looking at the dead man, he shook his head, ironically truthful for once.

A growl ripped through the air and Jalil was suddenly grabbing Erik's forearm, dragging him along to his tent. Erik barely saw him move, still stupefied by his onslaught of emotions—numbness, shock, betrayal, irritation. The man was all anger, this time—a pulsing, animal menace Erik had only caught a glimpse of before. His wrists were still bound, surrounded by soldiers whom he knew were deadly even as they watched with stunned expressions. There was nothing he could do apart from follow, keeping up to ensure he did not stumble or trip over grasping roots and catching twigs.

He was brought to the same tent Jalil frequently used to interrogate him. It was not the General's, but it was not anyone else's, either; an empty, unsustained space of impersonality. The same chair he was bound to daily stood silently in the middle of the expanse, waiting to be occupied, but Jalil did not shove him towards it. Instead, the man barked orders in Farsi and the same burly men who constantly watched him entered the tent, striding towards Erik intently.

Erik immediately bristled as they roughly tugged at his arms, bringing them away from his sides, leaving his torso completely vulnerable to Jalil's wrath. "This is pointless," he hissed, golden eyes flashing with anger, carefully concealing the slight panic he felt within himself. "I know nothing of that man."

 _"Lies!"_ Jalil roared, advancing towards him. A swift blow was struck to his torso, this one stronger and more powerful than he had ever experienced before. His blood pounded loudly in his ears, and his chest heaved with a painful jerk.

He felt like a petulant child, trying in vain to convince an adult that he was innocent of some crime they had blamed him of. It was humiliatingly infuriating.

"He is from _your_ army!" the General continued to bellow, now rounding the tent as if he were searching for something. His hands darted wildly around, knocking over bags of supplies, boxes filled with uniforms and bandages. "He was discovered— _dead_ —by _my_ men only last night! There have not been any Soviets rounding this area, none who have been tracking us. _We have ensured it!"_

"Obviously you weren't thorough enough," Erik spit out through gritted teeth, glaring at the man who circled the edges of the tent. His own fury was specked with bewilderment, a suspicious wonder at what the man was looking for, what he wanted to find as he scoured the space, jerky and sharp in his movements.

His answer was, however, probably something he should have held back from the unstable General. It riled Jalil up even more, and the man turned to glower at him, the promise of death behind soulless, charcoal eyes. It was at that moment that he seemed to locate the object he had been hunting for, for his breathing seemed to slow, wild rage now replaced by a sadistic, fiendish pull of lips.

Erik forced himself not to show any fear as Jalil moved aside, revealing the single, sharp blade in his hand.

The deranged man stalked forwards, and Erik watched him guardedly, trying to ignore the sudden hitch in his heartbeat, his quickening pulse in his throat. He felt completely out of his element; a predator unused to being prey. Instinctively, he tugged at his arms as Jalil approached, but the two guards held their strong grip, leaving him open and vulnerable to their General's attack.

"My men found you with ease," Jalil hissed, eyes flashing with a controlled wildness to them. He stalked towards his prey, bringing the knife forwards with every step, the sharp blade glinting in the translucent tent light. "They found _you_ , the legendary Phantom, the ultimate Soviet threat. They are not so unpracticed as to let someone else slip by so easily."

Now standing fully in front of Erik, he brought the knife forwards and slashed at the bounded man's shirt in a single, vicious stroke; the ruined fabric fell apart, hanging off the man's shoulders, revealing his lean, lithe chest, his quiet muscles. There was no mark upon his skin, none apart from the constellation of bruises, black and blue and purple littering his torso.

Erik snarled and tugged more forcefully at his guards' grip to no avail. Jalil could bruise him, but he would _not_ allow himself to be a victim to his maddened whims. "Then they were simply caught off guard!" he said vigorously.

 _"They were not caught off guard!"_ Jalil roared, sending an elbow to his ribs. It was sharp but controlled, this time; he felt nothing broken, even if his mind was in a struggling haze of blinding pain. "You've been in contact with them!" Jalil declared ferociously, shoving at his chest with an open palm. "You've been sending them messages—leaving them scraps of information!"

"You have been watching me day and night!" Erik countered in a bellow, furious at the man's unjustified paranoia, driven to panic at the prospect that this time, Jalil might go too far. "You tie and bind me to every surface, every object you can find. I have no weapons, no contact with your _own_ soldiers. How could I have delivered messages to mine?"

"You did!" Jalil insisted with a shriek, and brought the knife down in a vicious slash, cutting a clean streak down Erik's chest. He gasped at the white-hot pain that filled his senses from the deep, long gash. There was the faint feel of blood escaping his body, warm and thick against his open wound.

"I wasn't speaking to them, Jalil!" Erik shouted, holding back his wince. The wound was sharp and thorough—not life-threatening, but enough to leave him in a severe degree of pain. It blinded him, made him more feral than before. He didn't want to comply to this man, but was beyond frustrated that his life was at risk for a crime he did not commit, a sin he was not entitled to. "There was no possible _way_ that I was speaking to them!"

"He was _already dead_ , Phantom!" Jalil responded wildly, savagely cutting at skin once more. Erik could not hold his wince back, this time; the gash was not as clean, having cut across his existing wound. He knew without looking that his chest had streaks of thick, warm blood coating skin. It was infuriating, humiliating, painful.

"These men are equipped with tablets when they are sent out into the field," Erik hissed through gritted teeth. "He probably heard your men advancing and murdered himself. This has _nothing_ to do with me."

"This has _everything_ to do with you! _You_ and your Soviet army—"

"They are _not_ my army—"

"And you are not of mine!" Jalil countered violently, eyes wide and feral. "Tell me where they are."

Erik exhaled exasperatedly, willing himself not to show his pain even as the wounds stung blindingly. "I've told you again and again," he said irritably, "I _don't know_. They've probably moved camps, like you have. It must be coincidence that they are close to yours."

"Coincidences are impossible."

"Not always."

Jalil let out another spitting roar, raising his armed hand up once more.

Outside the tent, the men shifted uncomfortably, weary from their General's violent tendencies. It was not unknown that Jalil was a strange, brutal man, but many of the soldiers disagreed with his ways, saw his savageness as unnecessary.

One man in particular stood towards the side, pursing lips together. His posture was stiff, his shoulders squared as he folded lean arms together.

This was not what he had envisioned being a part of when he had been enlisted.

It was late afternoon when the guards emerged with Erik, dragging him along by the arms. He was walking, but barely—his torso now littered with deep, opened gashes. Streaks of red littered his chest, an ugly map of scars along his skin. His chest heaved with painful breaths, his mind struggling to stay awake even as the pain threatened to overtake his senses. His teeth were clenched together, his lip torn from bites to hold back sounds of his discomfort.

They roughly dropped him by the same tree he had spent the night leaning against, but didn't bother to bind him; even though his wrists were free, it was clear to anyone that he would not be moving anytime soon. He barely noticed the shocked gasps, the open-mouthed stares from the other soldiers. There was only his heaving chest, his strain to exhale, to ignore the encompassing hurt from his wounds.

He hardly registered night falling, the soldiers retreating to their tents. The day had passed by in a painful blur of drifting in and out of consciousness. Everything was a clouded around him, a kaleidoscope of green and red and white flashing behind his eyes. It was a struggle to breathe.

And then, there was the sudden feel of wetness upon his lips, and he parted his mouth, greedily drinking the cool water. The liquid was heavenly against his parched throat, dry since the night before. He took a breath, barely feeling the bark of the tree as his head leaned backwards exhaustedly. Then, there was a feeling of coolness upon his chest, soothing the angry gashes upon his skin. They relieved his throbbing wounds, and a heavy groan rumbled through his chest, his body no longer under his control. There was something on his chest, something brushing at his wounds, wiping at the thick red coat covering his chest. It was excruciatingly blissful.

He only heard a familiar dulcet of, "This is too much, Jalil," before he found himself surrendering to the sweet darkness at last.

* * *

Jalil was less severe in the next few days, but his methods of _questioning_ had gotten decidedly more violent since the fateful day that had rendered Erik incomprehensible. A knife was almost always present during one of their sessions, and the General was generous when using it.

He had finally accepted that Erik had no knowledge of the Soviet soldier, but his paranoia had increased. Since that day, soldiers were almost always stationed in various posts throughout the day, protecting their camp. The heads of the army had also come to send them out on more frequent 'expeditions' to ensure that they had a thorough knowledge of the land they had relocated to. Barely anyone was left at the camp during the day, and at night exhausted, weary soldiers would filter back in, eager to fill their bellies with food and get some sleep.

If Erik were not faring worse than them, he might have felt sorry for these men.

They were only boys, after all.

Still, he could not be particularly sympathetic at anyone if he was freshly scarred at the end of each new day. His chest was a coat of red and blue, wounds and torn skin, abused and used by Jalil to sate his madness. Erik would not be surprised if the man found sadistic pleasure out of seeing him grit his teeth together as a blade traced his skin, determined not to make a sound, not to betray the slightest inkling of pain.

The stares that he got at the end of every interrogation—were they even considered interrogations, now?—were expected. Some were sympathetic, some were smug, some were afraid. There were always eyes on his form, taking in his tattered shirt, his soiled form, his laboured breaths.

And yet there was always one pair that confused him the most.

He had assumed it was Nadir Khan whom had first given him water the first time. He assumed it had been the same man who dressed his wounds, ensured that he would not catch an infection when Jalil had lost his temper.

Nadir Khan would not let him die on his watch, he knew. But what he did not understand was Khan's need to _linger_.

Long after everyone went to sleep, he would quietly make himself known to Erik and begin to silently tend to his scars, ensure that he was well hydrated and nourished. Khan checked his temperature, pressed healing herbs to his skin, observed the pallor of his skin, and it was more than what any other man would have done.

Was Khan that compassionate, or was he after something else?

Erik leaned against the surface of the tree that night, sighing into the night air. It was noticeably cooler, now; a result of September rolling into October. The mountains were windier, the skies cloudier despite the pressing sunlight that disrupted their progress.

Khan had already tended to him, though there hadn't been that much to tend to. Jalil had been otherwise distracted by interrupting soldiers and had finally stormed off to deal with more pressing matters. Apparently there had been a commotion outside, a disagreement between two men. Erik hadn't particularly cared; if it meant that there was one less day Jalil would spend etching marks into his skin, he would take it. He managed to breathe without the need to surpress heaving gasps, at least.

His wrists were no longer bound; the mujahideen no longer saw him as fit enough to escape, and if Erik were to admit it to himself, he wasn't. His body was always sore at the end of each day, his entire being exhausted. He knew there was no point in escaping, as well; night guards had been stationed in various spots throughout the camp's borders. He was one injured, unarmed man. He would not be able to cross them.

Erik closed his eyes, taking a breath, reminding himself why he was pushing through this. Why he wanted to _live_.

Christine.

She was his light, his salvation and strength. He was determined to return to her once more, to feel her by his side.

Suddenly, he was overcome with the need to see her face. With a wary guardedness, Erik looked around, ensuring nobody was in sight before shifting slightly, reaching for something hidden precisely in his loose slacks.

He brought his hand up, opening his palm to reveal the golden locket she had given him.

It was stained from mud and dirt now, but there was no denying its strange beauty, its magnetic allure. He gazed upon the graceful markings softly, traced a tender thumb against the cool metal. And, as carefully as he could manage, he fumbled for the catch, clicking it open.

The two pictures that stared back up at him seemed as if they had been taken a lifetime ago. Christine by herself on one side, the two of them on the other. His wife was beautiful as always in both photos, but he could not stop staring at the photograph of them. She was smiling in her portrait, but she was _glowing_ in this one. Cobalt eyes shone brightly, lips spread in a frozen laugh. She was breathless with joy, glorious in his arms.

And him—he looked so _happy_. Erik stared at his mirror image, wondering who this man was, wondering how he could have been so carefree. For three years of his life, he did not have to worry about the consequences of a misspoken word, hadn't seen the need to be overly cautious about everything. Everything had been under his control—his life, his happiness, his victims. For once, he had felt truly _free_ to enjoy himself, to live alongside his gorgeous, stunning, loving wife.

He was so lost in memories, reminiscing in the bliss of his past, that he did not realise he was not alone until he saw a movement in front of him.

Immediately, Erik shoved the locket out of view, defences rising once more. No matter what, he could _not_ let them take this from him. They had taken his weapons, kept him as a captive, bruised and ruined his flesh, but they would _not_ take this from him.

He would not allow it.

He raised his chin, opening his mouth in order to let out a snarky remark, before he caught sight of the man in front of him.

Nadir Khan had come to check on him, once again.

A sudden rush of fury rushed to his temple, born and twisted from confused gratitude and bewilderment. He hated this man—hated him for his kindness that seemed to want nothing in return, his concern over someone who wasn't under his care. Hell, Erik was his _enem_ _y_. Why did he care so much?

"I think it's long past your bedtime, Khan," he spit out, golden eyes flashing warningly at the Afghan.

Khan was not fazed in the slightest; instead, he moved to sit beside him, perching upon a log. His tanned skin seemed even darker in the darkness, barely lit by dim moonlight. His chin was freshly shaved, his hair clean but unkept. Hazel eyes regarded his own with a wariness to them, curious and probing.

"Someone gave that to you, didn't they?" he asked, and Erik found himself startled at the man's forwardness. There was no attempt to initiate a casual conversation, something society insisted on doing before broaching a subject. Khan was blunt and forward, staring at him as if he expected an answer, though there was no demand in his eyes.

And strangely, Erik found himself nodding. "Yes," he said slowly, knowing there was no use denying the existence of the locket if Khan had already seen it.

Khan, once again, did not bother to tiptoe around what he wanted to know. "Is she waiting for you?" he asked, nodding in the vague direction where Erik had hidden the locket.

Erik blinked, and once again found himself nodding. He didn't know why he was disclosing this to the man, but he did not seem to be in control of his senses. There was only the slightest, strange feeling within his mind.

 _Trust him_ , his subconscious told him.

Alarm bells went off within his mind, screaming at him to guard himself, to ensure that this man did not see anything beyond his hard exterior. But Erik was _tired_ , damn it, and he missed the feeling of companionship. It was exhausting to be mistrustful all the time.

And Erik suddenly found himself not _caring_ , for once.

He leaned his head back against the trunk, closing his eyes. "Why are you doing this, Khan?" he asked tiredly. When the man gave no answer, he elaborated. "Why do you tend to my wounds every night, see to my needs? I've not given you any reason to prove that I am not a threat to you."

For a while, there was only silence. The faint sounds of an owl hooting echoed in the air, distant and haunting. Then, a quiet answer.

"You are not loyal to the Red Army."

Erik's eyes snapped open. He turned towards Khan sharply, golden eyes suspicious and alert. "What makes you think that?" he asked sceptically, narrowing his eyes.

Khan did not even flinch. "It is the same reason I am not," he said plainly, obviously. "You are not doing this for your nation, or yourself. You're here, in this army, because of her."

It was astounding how words could be powerful enough to strike him dumb. Erik blinked, staring at this Arab man, a whirlwind of emotions flooding his mind. Confusion, understanding, realisation. Confusion.

"I tend to you because I believe what Jalil does is immoral," Khan continued, pursing his lips. "I did not agree to join this war to experience brutality from the hand of one of my own."

"It is inevitable, in war."

"It is unnecessary."

They lapsed into silence, a quiet understanding shared between the two men. There, the Soviet tied against a tree and the Afghan perching on the log next to him, reminiscing over their pasts, mourning over the unfairness of it all. Erik glanced at Khan, noting the man's creased forehead, his expression deep in thought. He seemed saddened, the representation of the tiredness Erik felt within his soul. He wondered what it was this man had left behind—if he had a wife like Erik did, if he had a family that missed him for every passing day.

Khan looked up at him once more, hazel eyes open and inquisitive, nothing to signal any ill intent, and Erik found himself feeling strangely at peace with the man. "What is your name?" the Afghan asked curiously, regarding the Soviet, hands clasped below his chin.

Erik immediately felt his defences rise once more. "I am the Phantom," he said blankly, shielding himself behind this intimidating, unfeeling persona once more.

"But she does not call you that." Khan observed him carefully, and Erik felt strangely exposed under his eyes. He reflexively straightened his spine, unwilling to look weak to this man who prodded at his personal life.

He should have felt irritated at the unwelcome intrusion, but he found himself to be unfamiliarly, unexpectedly relieved. There was someone else here who could understand, who might be able to provide him _some_ sort of companionship.

And since he'd had Christine, Erik had become dependant on companionship. He felt drained, starved of it.

So he looked up, met the curious man's gaze. "Erik," he revealed quietly. It was peculiar to listen to his name said out loud once more. It was potent and resolute, hanging in the air.

Khan held his gaze for a moment more, and, slowly, gave him a small nod.

* * *

 ** _Present Day_**

Christine woke to find the space beside her empty.

She didn't lift her head, didn't move from her spot on the bed. Cobalt eyes stared at the sheets, pale lips parting with a sigh at the sight. Just another day of waking to find no Erik beside her, not even after months of him being back from Afghanistan.

 _Of course. What else did I expect?_

She expected to feel the familiar ache for him flood her bones, strong and insistent, a constant reminder of their failing relationship, but the feeling never came.

Or rather, it was dulled. An eased comfort traced her bones, almost as if she had been relieved, had felt him with her for even a moment. It confused her; she had not felt him hold her, kiss her, for months.

 _Wait_.

Christine's eyes widened as an onslaught of memories flooded her mind, suddenly reminding her of the events from the last two days. Seeing his face, feeling the horror that had now lessened to a softened vexation. Having him scream at her, golden eyes flashing with an anger she had never witnessed before. Her nightmare of him, his reaction to finding out that he haunted her dreams. The tears she had shed, the broken anguish in his eyes. Curling up in her room with her head buried in her hands, too cowardly to face him. And then, finally finding the courage to venture out into the living room only to realise that he was gone, and wondering with increasing panic if he would even come back.

 _He had_ , she realised. She remembered curling up on the sofa he had slept on, hugging his coverlet to her chest, trying to cease her shaking sobs. She had fallen asleep, she knew, but even now she vaguely recalled feeling strong, familiar arms lift her from the sofa, moulding herself against a body she had not felt against her own since she had hugged him at the airport.

With a jolt, she noticed that while the blanket she was tucked underneath on the other side of the bed was intact, the pillow was mussed and obviously slept on. A closer look revealed the duvet to be wrinkled, pressed flat into the mattress as if it had been laid on. Her breath caught in her throat. She had thought it had been a dream, a sweet, blissful dream…

Erik was here.

Erik had come home, Erik had carried her to the room, Erik had slept by her side.

Erik was _here_.

Christine sat up instantly, fully awake from the revelation. Her heart was thudding wildly, eyes wide and clouded with incredulous joy at the hazy memory of asking him to stay, giddy when she realised that he _had_. A slow, sure smile spread across her lips, hopeful and nervous all the same.

But he came back.

They still had a chance.

She had done him wrong, she knew. She had pondered her actions the entirety of yesterday, mulling over her reaction to him, cursing her stupidity for pushing him away when all she wanted was to melt into his embrace.

But today, he was back, and he had slept next to her, a feat that remained unaccomplished even throughout their months together since he had returned.

It was a wonder what one day apart could do. When he had left she had cried, screamed, begged the empty flat to bring him back to her. Pain had clouded her thoughts, attacked her chest, flooded her throat. She had felt like suffocating at the thought that she might not see him again. His face, his guardedness—none of it mattered, not if it meant that she couldn't have him. If it were possible, she had felt even more alone than she had when he had first left for Afghanistan—because at that time, she had no reason to question his love for her, had no reason to wonder whether she had driven them apart all because of her _stupidity_.

To know that he had returned, that he did not leave her—it sent a thrill of unadulterated exhilaration through her chest. Her heart swelled and grew, threatening to burst from her chest, wanting to join with its mate.

Perhaps he didn't love her, maybe he even hated her—she wouldn't blame him if he did. How could he even begin to accept her feeble apologies after what she had done to him, how she had reacted? He had suffered day by day, and she had been oblivious to it all, clouded by her own shallow judgement. _She_ wouldn't have forgiven herself.

Still, the fact that he had returned to her meant _something_. She would spend the rest of her days begging his forgiveness, attending to his every wish if it meant she could see his smile again.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice—a beautiful, magnetic, a velvet undertone, soft and melodious, the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

"Good morning."

Her head instantly whipped to the sound of the voice, eager to find its owner—and there he was. Sitting by the windowsill, illuminated by the warm sunlight of the morning. He wore his bandages, but the sunlight seemed to transform the gauze into beautiful shades of beige and brown, twisting and blending together to compliment his visage. His back was straight, his posture regal as always, masterful and adept, but there was a softness to his form that hadn't been there before, a gentle uncertainty betraying the pain he had endured. Golden eyes glittered, pure and unearthly as they watched her with a guarded wariness, a stoic calm.

She felt her voice catch in her throat, heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. He was beautiful, her man and his quiet strength. He was no stranger to cruelty, having been on the receiving—and giving—end of it the entirety of his life. The scars on his back, the distortion of his face was proof of that. He had been used and abused time and time again, an object to politicians and soldiers and governments.

And yet, he had still found it in him to keep fighting. To survive, when lesser men had faded and diminished under the slightest hint of pressure. He was so much more than her, deserved so much more than she could give him.

Even with what she had seen of his mangled, ruined face, he was ethereal before her eyes. He was magnificent.

She loved him so, so much.

Christine forced herself to swallow, willing to compose herself from the onslaught of emotions threatening to burst in her chest. Her breaths were uneven, blood pounding in her ears. Taking a breath, she managed to say, "Morning," in reply.

Erik didn't respond, nor did she expect him to. She would have been content to stare at him for all eternity, trace his body with her eyes and hands and lips, soothe the scars upon his back, his face, etched into his soul. She wanted to kiss him, she wanted to cry for him, she wanted to hold him and have him hold her.

Instead, she said breathlessly, "You came back."

He was still watching her, gorgeous golden eyes careful and composed. Slowly, he nodded. "I did."

"You didn't leave me."

"I didn't."

"You stayed with me last night."

At this, Erik shifted by the windowsill, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "Yes," he admitted, and to her bewilderment he shot her a guilty look. "I did. I hope you don't mind—"

"Erik," she interrupted, shaking her head with an incredulous laugh. "We're married. Of course I don't."

He seemed unconvinced. "I thought, since I slept outside—"

"I always want you next to me, Erik." Blue eyes met gold, honest and open as she gazed at him from her position on the bed. She wanted to cry from the mistrust in his eyes, his doubtful stance. She had done this to him, had made him question their relationship and marriage.

She hated herself for it.

"I'm so sorry I didn't make it clear," she said in a whisper. Erik stared at her for a long moment, searching her eyes as if to look for a flicker of a lie, something that would prove her words wrong.

Dainty legs slipped out from underneath the covers, swinging over the edge of the bed and resting feet upon the insulated carpeted floor. With careful, concise steps, Christine inched off the bed towards him, holding herself tentatively, gauging his reaction. He didn't betray a flicker of emotion, simply watching her come towards him slowly. She vaguely registered his golden eyes tracing her form, taking in her bare feet, her lean thighs, halfway concealed by his shirt that hung on her form, its sleeves much too long for her. Still claiming herself as his, even when he could not be further apart from her.

Her gaze on his was steady despite her nervous demeanour, cobalt orbs wide and open and pleading. She was so close to him now—she could detect the faint whiff of his scent, musky and undeniably _Erik_ , a scent she had been denied for far too long.

She stopped in front of him, gazing softly down as he looked back up at her, still guarded, still hardened. "I'm so sorry I didn't listen," she continued quietly, holding his eyes with her own, willing him to see the truth, the honesty behind her words. "I didn't think, I didn't know—"

"You couldn't have known," he murmured, expression still unreadable. Still, his tone softened slightly, and Christine took this as an initiative to sit beside him, careful to watch his reaction. He turned slightly to face her once she was seated, and she let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

He was cooperating, he was responding to her. Perhaps he was ready, perhaps he wanted to fix this wedge between them as desperately as she did.

Still, she could not rejoice, not when his words cut her to her core. "But I should have," she said, so softly that she wondered if he had caught her words. She closed her eyes, shutting them painfully at the fact that she hadn't been there for him when he had needed her most.

 _Selfish, selfish, selfish._

"You wanted me to tell you, Christine," she heard him sigh beside her. "I chose not to. This is not your fault."

"It is not yours, either."

They were silent for a moment, contemplating each other's words. She could feel him breathing beside her, quiet and controlled. His arm brushed hers and she fought the urge to just _take_ whatever she wanted from him right then and there, to claim his lips and his breath and his voice.

She had ached for him for so long.

Christine took a breath, forcing herself to focus on the situation at hand. She needed to earn his forgiveness before she could think about anything else. And there was one aspect, one sin she had committed against him, something inexcusable and despicable of her.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, "for screaming at you. At—at seeing—"

"My face," he said flatly.

She swallowed and nodded, blinking cobalt eyes open. He was not looking at her, and she fixed her gaze on his sharp, defined jaw, the bandages that wrapped around what she knew to be scars, twisted and horrible, skin that had been cut away. Without realising what she was doing, she had lifted a hand to caress the bandages, feeling rough, ragged material beneath her palm. Erik flinched at her touch and she froze, expecting him to rip himself away from her, to yell at her for trying to tear away his defences once more, but he simply let out a deep, shaky breath and held still, allowing her touch.

 _Progress._

Carefully to ensure she didn't upset his bandages, she traced the bumps and crevices, exploring what she couldn't see with her touch. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head with the slightest of movements.

She lightly dragged a finger over his cheek, breath hitching when she felt an unnatural dip, knowing that this had been _created_ by another man. Frustration built up within her and she bit her lip, dismayed at the inhumaneness of it all, the unfairness. All this time, he had been quietly suffering, broken by a heartless, cruel man.

 _How_ could someone do this to him? To her Erik—her pure, poor Erik.

Her chest expanded in a shaky breath. "Who did this to you?" she asked, willing to keep her voice steady.

Erik looked down towards his lap. She couldn't read his expression, could see nothing except for the uneven dressings covering his skin, a shield, a guard against her. He clasped his hands together, still looking down, and spoke quietly. "You don't need to know, Christine."

"I want to," she said assertively, and found herself surprised at the truth in her words.

 _I do_ , she realized. _I want to know_.

This was different from before—this need to understand what he had done and what had been done to him. When he worked as an assassin, she hadn't wanted him to tell her anything. She would hold him, comfort him if he needed it, but hadn't wanted to know the details of his kills. There were moments, of course, when she had offered to lend an ear to ease his burden of carrying this load by himself, but he had never accepted it and she had never pushed him to. She was more than happy to live in their little world of ignorant bliss, basking in his love as he did in hers. It was almost as if she was denying this truth in him—this side to her husband that was so unfamiliar, the polar opposite of the wholesome, loving man she knew.

But now her blood was boiling, her heart twisting painfully in her chest. She wanted to ease his burden, yes, but this was more than that. She wanted to know who had _dared_ do this to her husband, _dared_ to disfigure him in such a way.

They had hurt him, and she wanted someone to direct her anger to, even if there was not much she could do about it.

" _I_ don't want you to," Erik responded, looking at her sharply. Her thoughts of retribution were disrupted as golden eyes bored into hers, firm and deadly serious. "There are some things I don't want you to hear of, Christine."

"I can take it," she insisted, affronted that he might think otherwise, even if there was little evidence to support her claim.

As she expected, Erik shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "Leave it, Christine. I think the bandage explains enough, as it is."

And _there_ it was: the self-depreciation she knew so well, his bitter and cynical side coming out once more. For his suffering to be brushed aside so casually, so dismissively—it cut her to her core. Her mind recalled images of what he'd had to endure—the brutal etches upon his back, his face that was hardly a face anymore—and she couldn't help herself from letting out a choked sob.

He sighed, looking back down at his lap. His shoulders drooped and he suddenly looked as if he had aged a thousand years. "Don't cry for me, Christine," he said tiredly, sounding weary, exhausted. "I don't deserve your tears."

"You do," she shook her head.

He barked out a laugh and she felt her heart shatter a little more, hating how much he hated himself, hating that she had done nothing but reassert that disdain from her horrified reaction to him.

"I've done so much wrong, Christine," he said, words spit out through clenched teeth. He still refused to look at her. "My whole life I've stolen, lied, _killed_."

"But that's not _you_ —"

"God, how can you be so _blind,_ Christine? How can you forget what I did to you—how I _lied_ and let you down again and again—"

"Erik, please—"

"Don't deny it, Christine!" he hissed. He was not seated by her anymore, having wrenched himself from her grasp to stride to the middle of the room. Gone was his composure, his calm, replaced by frustration and exasperation. He exhaled harshly then brought a hand up to his face as if to run fingers through his hair but stopped short, remembering his bandages. She watched from her seat as he stared at his hand, controlled grief barely reflected in his eyes.

"Maybe I had this coming," he said bitterly, letting his hand drop.

Christine looked up at her husband from her seated position, cobalt eyes sadly regarding him. "Nobody would have deserved this," she said firmly. "And you _definitely_ didn't."

His lean, tall form stiffened at the sight of her smaller one rising, unfolding to stand upright. Once again she walked towards him, and once again he watched her sharply, taking in her every step, her every movement. "Christine," he began warily, velvet voice trailing off as she stopped to stand in front of him, tilting her head upwards so she could better look at him.

"I wish you could see yourself through my eyes," she said softly. "I wish you could see how much I admire you, how much I respect you."

He was staring at her openly, now, intense and unwavering, hanging onto her every word. A soft, sad smile graced her lips, reminiscent of all they'd had, their simpler, happier days. _Those two people are gone_ , she thought sadly.

"I know you can do so much better than me," she sighed, lifting a hand up to brush at his chin. "You are so, _so_ brilliant, Erik. So talented and intelligent. You have so much to offer the world." She shook her head, letting out a humourless laugh. "And underneath all that is the most passionate, caring, _noble_ man I've ever known. Of course I'd have to love you."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed his eyes and she frowned, suddenly confused. "What's wrong?" she asked worriedly, searching his eyes. "Did you ever doubt that?"

He looked away, directing his gaze to their feet, and with a dull horror she knew her answer.

 _He thought she didn't love him_.

One hand lifted to grab his chin, forcing him to look at her. Cobalt eyes regarded golden ones intensely. "I love you," she declared, her voice strong and ringing through the empty room, purposeful and firm. "I love you," she repeated, taking a step towards him. "I don't know how to tell you in words how much. Yes, you've done some terrible things, and I know that your past was horrible to you. But that doesn't mean that you deserve what's been done to you."

She took a breath, trying to sort her thoughts so as to better explain to him what she was feeling, but found that her emotions were a disorganized, clattered mess. How could she begin to explain to him what he meant to her? How could she begin to apologise for her inexcusable actions?

"I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, that night," she murmured, now being the one unable to meet his eyes. She felt his gaze on her, hard and piercing, and couldn't bring herself to return it. "I was shocked and I just—how could I even expect to see what I did?" she whispered.

He shifted, and she felt him begin to pull away from her, to retreat back into himself. "I don't want your pity, Christine," he said gruffly.

She held him fast, unwilling to let him go again. "You have it anyway," she said, then quickly elaborated when he sent her an icy glare. "You have it all—my pity, my compassion, my love. Everything I feel is for _you_ , _to_ you, _because_ of you. Nothing can change that, Erik. _Nothing_ ," she insisted.

It was embarrassing to feel the tears threatening at her eyelids. Here they were, having a discussion—or something similar to one, anyway—for the first time in _months_ , and she couldn't even form coherent sentences without being reduced to a blubbering mess. Still, _how_ could she hold back her tears when he had become so mistrusting? Hardened by the need to survive, broken by experiences beyond her control. Her heart was twisting painfully in her chest.

She let out a sob, ducking her head and pressing her lips to his shoulder in a silent apology. How she _hated_ herself for not putting his needs above hers. He was still against her, and she shakily breathed in his scent, heart aching at his sadness, swelling at the feel of him _finally_ against her once more.

"I'm so sorry," she whimpered into his shirt, shutting her eyes tightly. "I was frustrated and selfish, and you didn't deserve any of that."

"Christine," he said softly above her, voice soft and melodious. It was different, this time; more gentle, less rough.

Melodious and virtuosic once more, the tone he had used with her when he had first spoken to her that morning.

She lifted her head and her breath caught at the sight of him. Gone were his defences, his carefully guarded expression. Erik looked at her, tentative and unsure, and all she wanted to do was kiss his uncertainty away, to bring him into herself and allow him to _forget_ , if only for a moment.

"I love you," she stated once more, bringing his hand up to her lips and pressing a kiss to his skin. His eyes were glued to their joined hands, poised and firm between their chests, and he took a single, shaky breath.

"Christine," he breathed.

Without another word she opened her arms and he fell into them. She held him tightly to her, a floodgate of emotions breaking as she felt him mould himself into her, grasp her as close as possible. It was when she felt his lips pressed to her neck, something he used to always do whenever he embraced her, that she allowed her tears to fall. Holding him against her was bliss, agony and tragedy wrapped in one. She couldn't describe what she was feeling, this nameless, exotic thing of beauty soaring into her lungs, twining into her veins.

He shook against her and she trembled for him. "I'm here," she whispered in a pained reassurance, letting her hand thread through his hair, caressing his scalp. "I'll always be here."

He only tightened his grip around her, silent and unmoving in their little bedroom.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm exhausted just scrolling through how long this is. Let me know what you think! Let's try for **95+** reviews this time round, shall we?


	14. Keep My Love

**A/N:** Oh my gosh, those hours where I was finished with the newest chapter but couldn't update were torturous. Thank you for all your lovely reviews, as always. Have fun with this chapter!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Not With Haste, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _Your eyes they tie me down so hard,_

 _I'll never learn to put up a guard._

 _So keep my love, my candle bright,_

 _Learn me hard, oh learn me right._

* * *

 ** _October 1980_**

Erik was not woken by a soldier, this time; the sounds of shifting and men speaking at loud tones were enough to rouse him. It was early—the sun was barely visible in the sky, the camp lit in a dim glow. He could barely see the streaks of orange and blue that must have blended into the sky. Light streamed down onto the camp in sections, strands of brightness obscured by towering trees.

He stared at the spires of branches, the leaves that blew as a gentle breeze whispered by. It was truly beautiful, this piece of land within the mountains, and for a moment he imagined what it would be like to see it peaceful and undisturbed by humanity in their need for war. The sounds of soldiers packing and arranging faded into the background, a buzz of chatter and clinking tent poles, the rustle of plastic and canvas bags.

They were leaving, he realised, moving on to another piece of land, another place of shelter. He wondered if they would notice should he stray behind.

It would be so easy to lose himself, here. To give in and let himself be.

It was a wistful dream. His two guards, as expected, interrupted his momentary peace, looming above him and casting shadows upon his form. They were silent and gruff as always, hauling him to his feet once they noticed his state of consciousness. He stood compliantly, brushing the dirt off his slacks. He gave no snarky comment, no witty remark as they proceeded to wrap a thin coil of rope around his wrists, binding pulse to pulse once more. There was no need to waste his energy on such trivialities.

The rest of the soldiers were quick; fifteen minutes had passed and their packs were hoisted upon their backs, their uniforms arranged, the camp empty save for the faint hiss of firewood recently put out. All around him were visions of young men adjusting their straps, young men checking to see if they had left anything of theirs behind, young men laughing and joking and living each day wondering if they would see the next. An order was called out and then they were moving, walking out of the safety of their borders, venturing out into the woods. The sound of leaves crunched under boots filled the air.

His guards roughly pushed him forwards and Erik sighed irritably, jerking himself away from their grasp. "I can walk," he snapped at them, before putting one foot after the other, following the others and beginning their surely tiresome journey.

There was no blindfold, this time—there was no need for one. The trek was dizzying and unidentifiable. Upon the mountains they marched, crossing hills and slopes, occasionally stopping whenever the navigator needed to recheck their direction. There was nothing to tell him where they were, no significant marks or streams or hollows. The grounds were too shaded, so he could not identify their coordinates from the position of the sun in the sky. They walked on in circles, it seemed; there was no end, no stops. A few men lingered behind to keep a close eye on him, ensuring he did not stray anywhere, that he did not escape. Erik saw no point in trying to.

They stopped by a grassy bank in the late afternoon, when the sun rays were more prominent and the air warmer on his skin. Erik shifted in the loose shirt Khan had provided him with, hanging off increasingly bony shoulders. His old one had been damaged beyond repair, reduced to strips of cloth by Jalil's slicing knife. The overly tightly tied rope was cutting into the skin of his wrists; they would surely leave marks. He sighed—another scar he would need to see everyday, another mark branded upon his skin by these people.

An unidentifiable man announced a short break for lunch, and collectively, every chest heaved with relief. Around him, the men dispersed into groups and packs, choosing a spot to sit by. They settled upon the ground, pulling out packed wraps of food and drink. Their group was large, their and passed around a tumbler, tongues expertly weaving out a string of Farsi in their amiable chatter. It was like watching a group of children out on a school trip.

Erik walked away from his guards without another word, his eye set on a boulder that stood towards the side. His legs were more weary than usual, a result of a lack of exercise, the limited diet he was consuming. With a heavy sigh he settled upon the rock, relieved to be off his feet for a moment.

This was not what he had pictured when joining the army, and he'd had enough.

When he finally retuned to the Soviet Union, he would not wait another second before leaving the service of the government. If they proved to be difficult, he would take Christine away—bring her to the expanse of Europe, perhaps even South America. Travel somewhere they could both live without the constant worry of being watched, somewhere she could sing and he could design, somewhere they could compose and celebrate and make love…

 _Christine_. He sighed, overcome with her image in his mind once more. The softness of her skin was a direct contrast to the hard, jagged boulder he sat upon, merciless against his tired body. Erik laid a palm upon the rough surface to balance himself and ran a hand through his hair, quite certain that if he were to look into a mirror, he would find himself dirtied and muddy, dried blood crusting against his chest.

He had once been the master of every craft, skilled in tackling and adjusting and adapting. Feared and respected by many, only to return home into the arms of the only woman who cared enough to love him. He had finally found everything he had wanted his whole life—everything that had existed within her, all this while...

He had felt full, unable to remember a time he had felt more content. Fate had been cruel to degrade him to the pathetic prisoner he was now.

His bitter thoughts were interrupted at the sound of angry whispers, voices rough and spitting. They were a little behind him—concealed within the trees, he realised. A look around the green field showed the soldiers still eating and talking, oblivious to the conflict hidden from their ears. He wondered what troubles ailed the minds of the men behind him; if they were personal or professional.

Careful to ensure his expression betrayed nothing to the soldiers around him, he inched towards the direction of the voices, straining to listen.

"…is not necessary!" the first man was insisting in an obviously lowered tone. "We have not caught a glimpse of the Soviets in _weeks_. It would do us no harm to move to another camp—"

"We have to take the necessary precautions!" he heard the other hiss. Unlike the first, this voice was natural in its low, deep timbre, a tone that had taunted and yelled and screamed at him many times before. Jalil. "One of them was _incredibly_ close to discovering us, and I don't believe a single word that comes out of that Phantom's mouth about not knowing our location beforehand. We cannot allow them to come this close to us again. They will _expect_ us to set up another base in the mountains. This will give us an advantage against them!"

"And put the lives of innocents at risk!" the first voice protested.

"There will always be casualties in war," he heard Jalil dismiss.

"They would be _victims_ , not casualties!"

There was a frustrated growl, then the low snap of, "We are fighting a _war_ , Khan. Don't let your weaknesses rule you."

"The want to protect innocents is _not_ a weakness."

Khan's words rang in the air for a long moment. Then, "We have hidden amongst villagers before, Khan. You said yourself that the Soviets are unlikely to be near us. Why be difficult about it?"

It was so silent that Erik wondered if they had ended the conversation. A few moments later, though, Khan answered—so quietly that he had to mull over the words for a few moments before he could truly comprehend what he had said.

"Too many lines have been crossed, Jalil. I would have us stop before we cross another."

The two men must have parted after that, for Erik was not able to hear anything else coming from the direction of the trees. A deep frown marred his features as he sat by the boulder, considering what he had just listened to.

The mujahideen were locating not to another camp, but to a _village_. A village that, according to Khan, was the home of innocent people, women and children who were oblivious and unprepared should danger befall the camp.

Erik was no stranger to unjust situations, but this was, as Khan had quietly asserted, a line that should not be crossed. To put the lives of innocents at risk was something not even the Soviets had done or considered within their strategies. There was talk of the Viet Cong pursuing such a tactic in Vietnam, but after the massacre that made itself known to the media, he would have thought others would not take the risk.

He should have known that Jalil would never act according to his expectations, and that there was nothing he or Khan could do about it. It was the tragedy of power; this inability to do right without risking themselves. He wasn't quite sure if the man was heartless or paranoid.

The trek to the village was not as tiresome as the first journey. There were less uphill climbs now; instead, they followed a sloping path curving through hollows and littered rocks upon the ground. It was fortunate that his boots were sturdy and intact; if Erik had been forced to hike barefoot, his feet would be bloodied and fleshless by now. It was difficult to balance with his wrists bound, unable to throw an arm out should he stumble or trip. In a way, his guards were his saviours—they roughly set himself on his feet, ensured he did not hurt himself too much.

When they arrived at the village, it was nightfall.

It was not much of a village—more of a little town, quiet and unsuspecting. The hardened grounds were empty, the villagers already settled within their homes for the night—and even then, Erik suspected that more than half of the houses were empty. He walked amongst the group of soldiers, a silent observer of the still scene, devoid of anyone. There were no animals to liven the scene, no children running about. The empty town square was darker than usual, lacking the streetlights he was used to that would lighten the streets of Moscow.

The lit homes were the only indication that life existed within the still paths. As they approached the other soldiers who were now waiting for them, Erik caught a glimpse of several darkened houses, their doors weathered and unused. He looked up and met the eyes of a woman peering from a window, hair covered in a loose shawl, expression confused and afraid. She immediately looked away and boarded the window, shutting him away.

"They chose to flee," said one of the soldiers walking just a little away from Erik, his tone disgusted as he observed the abandoned homes, the village that was quieter than usual. "They chose to leave rather than stay in their country."

"They chose to save themselves," another retorted, and the others went silent. Erik trudged along without speaking, wrists aching but still standing tall, impassive and hardened.

They came to a stop upon reaching the other soldiers, gathering with the group of khaki uniforms, compliant and without individuality. Jalil stood in the middle amongst the other ranked men, his beard gleaming with sweat, his knuckles clenched into fists by the side. Erik recognised this mood all too well; the General's exhaustion almost always resulted in impatience, a frame of mind that had never benefited him during their interrogations. Charcoal eyes scanned and stared stonily at the crowd of soldiers surrounding him, inspecting them closely. A deep line marred his forehead, lips twisting into a scowl.

Erik scanned the crowd, looking for a specific face.

Khan was nowhere in sight.

"Find yourselves some shelter for tonight," Jalil ordered. "Take off your uniforms and leave them off. We want to be _inconspicuous_. Blend in with the villagers, do their chores, let nobody suspect anything. We will stay for a week."

With a nod, he dismissed the soldiers. They dispersed with a ring of murmured voices, low and controlled, dividing into small groups as they searched for empty homes. Erik stood towards the side, golden eyes scrutinising the scene critically when the General turned towards him, beckoned for him to come forwards. He felt a shove at his back and gritted his teeth, annoyed.

Long legs strode towards the General and stopped, bright orbs narrowed. His stance was still kingly, regal; power thrummed from his form even as he wore sullied trousers, black shirt that hung loosely off his shoulders. A chilly breeze whispered by, twining cold air into the holes of his shirt, icing his tattered skin.

Jalil regarded him coldly, no pretence of joviality or warmth within his black, soulless eyes. "Khan will attend to him, tonight," he said gruffly to the two guards behind him. "Leave him."

Without another word they obeyed, the heat radiating from their burly bodies immediately missing from behind him. Erik straightened his back, glared down at the man. He was grateful that at least, in their differing heights, he was far superior.

"Where is Khan?" he asked cooly, regarding the man with a hardened gaze. His vocal chords were strained with misuse since he hadn't spoken the entire day; his voice was rough and ragged, lacking its usual musical timbre.

"Who gives a shit," Jalil muttered before striding off in the direction of another home, leaving Erik in the middle of the village. The Soviet watched as the man gave two swift knocks on the door before he was admitted, a soldier with an unbuttoned shirt letting him in. The door closed behind him, its snap echoing in its resolution.

Erik pursed his lips, looking around the expanse of houses. He would _not_ share with any of the other soldiers—there was no guarantee that they would not attempt to disrupt his sleep, to have their way with him. He could have easily overtaken them in his full health, but with his stomach empty, his throat parched and bones aching, he would not be able to stop any untoward advances.

Before he could resolve himself to another uncomfortable night upon the hard ground, he spotted Khan emerging from the shade of dim houses. He watched the man suspiciously, noting his wary stance, his careful movements. They were the features of a man who did not want to be observed, who was hiding something. Khan eventually spotted the pale man standing in the centre of the village, golden eyes trained on him and wrists bound, and immediately moved towards him, looking around with an unconcealed confusion. "Where are the others?" he asked once he reached Erik's side, voice low and controlled.

"Retired for the night. Where were _you_ _?"_ Erik shot back, narrowing his eyes at the man.

Khan merely shrugged and turned from him, a lazy hand outstretched in a beckon for him to follow. "Taking a piss. Come; I've found an empty home for our use."

Erik suspected he wasn't being given the truth but followed anyway, exhaustion ruling out his scepticism.

Khan led him towards a small wooden house. The door was almost falling off its hinges, the small front porch creaking below their boots. _It must have been free for months_ , Erik mused as Khan pushed at the door which gave easily, groaning under the pressure. It was cool inside, the vestige of life echoing hauntingly within the home. The home was small, Erik noted as he looked around; no divider between kitchen and small sitting room, two chairs and a table furnishing the limited empty space in between. There were two other doors to what Erik assumed were bedrooms, so at least he could spare the embarrassment of sharing a room with Khan.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Khan turned towards him, swiftly undoing the ties, too quickly for Erik's tired mind to catch.

"I don't suppose you could teach me that, could you?" he questioned wryly as the man loosened the cutting rope from his wrists.

Khan looked up at him and let out a low chuckle. "That would defeat the purpose of the bonds." He tore the rope off, throwing them unceremoniously onto the ground. Erik immediately moved to rub the cuts on his skin, wincing at the soreness of his wrists. Khan walked towards the kitchen cabinets, opening them to check for any preservatives. "Have you eaten, today?"

Erik was far too starved to keep his pride, so he shook his head. Khan nodded. "Stay here. Rest."

Without another word, the man left the home. Erik wondered if he was venturing to the shelters of the other soldiers, requesting for food for himself. The men would surely not allow for him to take their food if they knew it was meant for their Soviet captive.

He sighed, wanting nothing more to settle upon the chair by the table but feeling to dirtied to do so. He moved towards the sink, hoping that the plumbing was still functioning—ah. A stream of water jetted from the faucet, icy against his already freezing skin, making him snap his hand back instantly. It took a little coaxing, but Erik eventually managed to run his hands under the faucet, washing the dirt from his hands, arms, face, neck. It was soothing as it was painful, the spray of frost upon his cut wrists, the bruises that littered his skin.

It was only when he had dried off that Khan returned, holding a bowl of hot broth. It was a testament to how tired he was that Erik didn't open his mouth to question where Khan had gotten such a delicacy—the soldiers would not surely have found enough ingredients in time to prepare themselves broth. Instead he accepted the bowl gratefully, placing it on the table before proceeding to consume it. He had to keep himself from devouring the bowl, knowing that it would only upset his empty stomach instead of sooth it, and focused on taking one spoon at a time.

Khan was silent the entire time, standing by the window and staring out of it. The man was not as built as Jalil, but not as lean as Erik; instead he held a quiet thrum of supremacy and agility to his form. He did not hold himself as Erik did—with back straight and tall, regal and impassive—but possessed something that seemed akin to... humbleness.

Not once did he turn to look at Erik, choosing to look out the window the entire time. Erik was so distracted by his hunger that he did not notice that the man had his eyes trained on a specific house. It was small and modest, a thing made of stone and wood and rock, directly situated in the abandoned home's line of sight. When he finished, he looked up to find the house—grey and nameless like every other house in the village—with its lights on, standing apart from the other darkened homes.

A woman stood directly in front of the window, looking downwards—she must have been washing her hands, the movement of her arms implying that she was scrubbing something. The sleeves of her kaftan were rolled up to her elbows to ensure she did not wet them. Her hair was falling out of the black shawl she wore, tied loose and draping over her shoulders. She had fierce features, one that reminded Erik of images of Afghan women he had been shown before: beautiful yet dark with long nose, sharp chin, thick brows. Her eyes were lowered, and he wondered at the colour of her orbs—would they be a mixed, dark brown, a light hazel like Nadir's, or blue with hints of emerald specks?

His gaze drifted to rest once more upon Khan. He could not see the man's face, but noted the alertness to his frame, the agitation that crept within his entire being. Khan held himself with a tension Erik had never seen before, a deep disquiet that left him completely, irrevocably still. It was obvious that he held a kinship to this woman, though Erik wondered at the nature of their relationship. Was she his sister, his wife, his friend?

It was then that the woman chose to look up, meeting the eyes of Erik's companion for the night. He watched as they held each other's gaze; he could not see the colour of the woman's eyes from this distance, but the same anxiety was clearly written in the worried crease of her kohl-rimmed eyes, the subdued part of her thin lips.

From the back, Erik observed as Khan's head lifted ever so slightly, his hands lifting from his sides to grasp at the windowsill. Man and woman locked stares for a long moment, a reflection of eternity within each other's gaze. It was then that Erik realised he recognised the look the woman held—it was the same look Christine had given him when she had sent him off at the airport, an endless yearning of hope and doubt.

The woman was interrupted by something, for she broke their gaze and turned sideways, lips moving in fluent Farsi. Her worried features softened, and then a mop of unruly, tangled hair came into view, its owner only reaching her breast. The boy tilted his head to look up at her, forehead furrowed in a frown; she smoothened his brow soothingly, catching his chin and smiling softly at him.

Khan's grip on the windowsill was so tight that Erik knew he would walk away with cuts upon his palm. The woman looked at him one last time, her gaze wistful and worried, and coddled the child to her waist, leading him out of the room.

Almost immediately, Khan let out a large exhale. He lingered by the window for a moment, taking deep, shaky breaths. Then he straightened, suddenly alert, and whipped around to meet Erik's gaze, silent and ever watchful.

The man's eyes were dark and anguished, betraying his fear, worry, helplessness. Love.

And Erik understood at once why he had been so reluctant to reside within the village.

A moment later he hardened once more, expression fixing itself into carefully concealed calm. Hazel eyes were shaded, haunted with the impossibility of his situation, the worry that plagued his mind—the only indication that he could still feel, that he was internally disintegrating.

"Get some rest," he said harshly, before storming off towards a dimly lit hallway, his steps echoing through the empty house. A few moments later there was the faint sound of a door slamming, resolute and ringing within the air.

Erik stayed for a long time before he finally retired for the night, watching over the house opposite them in the man's absence.

* * *

 ** _Present Day_**

It seemed like the longest time since Christine had felt this much hope.

Everyday with Erik was a step forward. He had revealed nothing to her since that fateful day, had remained hardened and cool as ever, but once in a while she would catch a glimpse of his softened expression as he gazed at her, the faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips. She hadn't seen him smile in almost a _year_ , and though his mouth never truly twisted into a full grin she felt thrilled, knowing that he was going to be all right this time.

They were showing the new production now, so Christine chose to spend her lunches with him before leaving for the night. Their conversations were not as forced, and she laughed more often than not at his unexpected sarcasm, his dry humour that would occasionally emerge to give her a pleasant surprise. He waited for her after every performance with a meal for supper, and she would beam at him appreciatively. It was refreshing to know that they were both—finally—reciprocating an equal amount of effort in mending their broken relationship, determined to fix their marriage.

He was quiet, but not reserved. He did not offer to let her see beneath his bandages, nor did she push him to. They lived in a calm harmony, content to be in each other's presence. Something had changed within him since she had confessed her powerful, encompassing feelings—he was lighter, now, more willing to ease back into their love. She breathed in his presence, his controlled, composed strength and wrapped herself in it, in him.

And there were touches, now. They were faint and not frequent, but still there. She would brush his hand with hers as she reached for a glass of water, would lean against his shoulder as they both settled on the couch at the end of each day. He flinched less at the feeling of her against him, and soon he did not pull away at all when she would touch him. She thrived at their slow move forwards, thrived at how he seemed to relax around her once more.

By the end of the summer, he had begun to take her hand while they slept, twining his fingers with hers.

But she could tell that he was still haunted, still scarred—both physically and mentally—by all he had gone through. He still had nightmares that left him shaking, writhing in his sleep. Christine knew there was nothing she could do to relieve his horrors, and her heart broke whenever she felt his body lift off the bed, when she heard the controlled slam of the bathroom door behind him. She knew that he had suffered from night terrors when he had first returned home, but were more conscious of them now.

It was impossible, during these moments, to refrain from kissing him. Their little touches, their tentative steps forward—they lit her aflame, desire and love burning so brightly within her that she struggled to contain herself when looking at him.

God, how she missed him.

Lovemaking had never been a necessity within their relationship, but their moments tangled within each other had always been passionate and warm, fire laced with the sweetest comfort. While they had lost their initial lust, her desire for him was still ardent and fierce. She had yearned for him—all of him—for so long, and to think that they were surely moving towards this comfort they had shared before he had left—it fuelled her to her core.

She thrived at their slow move forwards, thrived at how he seemed to relax around her once more. Determination was fierce and ever present within her thoughts, her every action.

Slowly, she would show him that his face did not matter to her.

Slowly, he would start to believe it.

She heard the faint clasp of the door as he shut it, felt his heat as he moved towards her. It sent a faint thrill shooting down her spine. She settled her bag on the counter and turned towards him.

As always, her expression softened at the sight of him—his bandaged face, his thin, parted lips, his beautiful golden eyes. She gazed up at him, breathless even after all this time that he was hers, that he had chosen _her_ to spend the rest of his life with.

Her man, his woman. They were one and the same—had always been one and the same.

It was extraordinary, this rediscovered affection she now garnered for him since that day, thriving and soaring despite her basking in his love for years. It gave her faith, confidence.

"How was the performance?" Erik asked, golden orbs intense and burning. He stood still, back ramrod straight as always, and she marveled at how he chose to speak to her when he had not done so for months.

She smiled. "Better than yesterday's. The crowd was bigger too, tonight—I think our critics gave a good review."

"They did," he confirmed.

Her smile widened. Whenever the Bolshoi hosted a show, Christine had always made it a point never to read her reviews while Erik had always done the exact opposite. It was endearing to think that he was still maintaining the habit, even after he had left.

"I love you," she told him, unable to contain herself. She _needed_ to tell him, needed him to know so he could be confident in her love for him. For so long, she had denied him—she would not risk his doubt in her again. Her heart fluttered as his gaze softened ever so slightly.

A yawn took hold of her, deep and long and interrupting their tender moment. "I'm sorry," she said apologetically, wincing internally at her sense of timing. "I don't think I can spend time with you tonight—I'm so tired."

Her husband nodded. "Of course, Christine," he intoned, gentleness lacing his velvet timbre. "You should rest."

She smiled softly at him. "Not without you."

Without another word, Christine turned and started to walk towards their bedroom, impossibly tired. Earlier, she had told Erik that it was not necessary he prepare something for their supper, and was immensely grateful for her hindsight. She was thankful it was Saturday—despite her lax in performances, she still found herself unimaginably busy, juggling between running through ideas with Anton, spending time with Erik and rehearsing on her own. Four shows combined with two matinees were enough to tire her.

Erik averted his eyes when she began to change out of her clothes, ever the gentleman—even if he had seen her body a million times before. Christine did not protest, simply moving towards their bathroom before she finally retired for the night, lifting his hand to her lips and pressing a kiss to his palm before she let exhaustion take her.

She was woken by the sound of restless murmurs. Tired eyes blinked open, confused at first before settling upon the image in front of her: her husband, bandaged head tossing about and fingers gripping the sheets tightly, moaning out a stream of, "No, no, no," in his sleep.

Christine pushed at her elbow to sit up, still under the thick daze of sleep. Her nights were often late and tiring since they had finished rehearsals and moved onto shows, resulting in her immediately dozing off once coming home. With hazy, slow movements she dragged herself up, struggling to wake herself and focus on her husband.

There was not much she could see from his expression, since his face was covered by strips of bandages, but had a vague image of what she would see: forehead creased in an agitated frown, skin clammy with cold sweat. His mouth was visible and parted, eyes shut tightly, chest heaving in deep, uncontrolled breaths.

He was clearly having a nightmare. Her poor, unhappy Erik.

Forcing herself to keep her eyes open, Christine leaned towards him. "Erik," she said in a thick voice, still groggy from sleep. He didn't respond to her; his breaths were coming out in gasps now, his murmuring growing more distressed. Whatever was troubling him seemed to have intensified, and she was anxious to bring him back to consciousness.

"Erik," she repeated once more, watching his twitching form worriedly. She knew that it was not wise to shake him awake—it had only ever resulted in increased disquiet, before. She raised her voice, trying again. "Erik, please. Erik—wake up, baby, _please_."

It was no use—instead of inducing calm, her voice seemed to only worsen the situation. She dismayed, remembering how he used to immediately relax whenever she spoke soothingly to him.

 _This is something you can't fix_ , a voice in the back of her mind whispered. _You're not enough for him this time._

 _Shut up_ , she told it firmly, determined to prove it wrong.

Erik cried out suddenly, beautiful velvet voice raised and contorted, breaking in the midst of nightmares, and she started feeling the slow inkling of panic seeping through her veins. She refrained from touching him, knowing that he would not react well to that. It was painful to watch as he clearly struggled before her and she bit her lip, her heart breaking at the sight of him.

But she threw all caution to the wind when he began to thrash. Acting on instinct, Christine threw out an arm to hold his own down, leaning over him and afraid that he would harm himself.

His response was immediate—a swift tackle of bodies so that she landed on her back, pressed into the mattress as he loomed above her, lips curling into a menacing snarl.

Vaguely she remembered when he had pinned her down in a similar way—when she'd had her own nightmare. She recalled his automatic response, her fear and confusion, his devastation when he discovered her nightmare was about _him_.

She was determined that the situation didn't repeat itself, this time.

Golden eyes seemed to glow within the darkness of the night, startling and vivid. He was breathing heavily above her, his weight firmly pushing her into the mattress, hands pinning her wrists by the sides of her head. Christine's heart thudded wildly as she stared up at him, cobalt eyes wide and alert, fully awake by now.

"Erik," she said urgently, unable to sense recognition as she stared into his haunted, amber orbs. His grip on her wrists were too tight; she could not garner enough strength to move them. "Erik, it's me. It's Christine."

He continued to loom above her, alert and unreadable. Bony shoulders thrummed with unconcealed tension, hardened and resolute. His body was still save for the quick, shallow breaths that shook his form.

"Erik," she pleaded, and he leaned closer, feline and powerful in his threatening gaze. His face was inches from hers, so close that she could taste his breath. Her gaze wavered for a moment, darting down to his lips.

She could kiss him right now. Tilt her face up and press her mouth to his, startle him out of his stupor. Unwrap the offending garment covering his face and drag her lips over every scar, crevice and protruding bone. Remind him who she was with touch and kiss and body, take him into her and give him what they both undeniably craved.

Because no matter how hurt Erik was, she knew that her husband was still attracted to her. She saw it in his burning gaze as she walked around in his shirt, felt it in the stiffness of his body when she sat next to him. There was no doubt in her mind that he still wanted her after everything he had experienced—perhaps all the more _because_ of everything he had experienced.

But no—it would be too much, too soon. He needed the stability of a serene mind before she could offer him anything else. He needed to be comfortable enough to expose his face to her. They needed to rebuild their fragile relationship.

She could not act on her own desires without his consent. She wanted to guide them back to familiarity, but only if he was ready for it.

So Christine simply continued to speak to him, adopting the gentlest tone she could muster.

"You're home with me, Christine—your wife," she explained, peering up at him through raised lids. "You're not in the war anymore. Everything they put you through in Afghanistan—it's all over now. You don't ever have to go back there ever again. You're safe, you're with me, and I love you."

It was a relief to see that her words seemed to have a desired effect this time; his breathing slowed to a more controlled pace, his grip against her loosening. The wild, feral look that had overtaken his gaze seemed to melt away, replaced by confusion and gradual recollection. He stared at her for a long moment, hesitant and doubtful.

"Christine?" he questioned uncertainly.

She gazed up at him with wide eyes, firmly conveying all the love she held for him in her open gaze, bringing forth every surge of emotion he inspired within her, bright and ardent and tender.

A small smile curved upon her lips. "Yeah, Erik," she said softly, "it's Christine."

His response was instant. All the tension seemed to leave his shoulders at her confirmation, and he sagged against her, collapsing from the weight of his memories. Her body was pressed into the mattress once more, but this time his covered face was buried against her neck, his arms poised on either side of her head, his hands brushing the sides of her wrists as he released his grip on her.

Christine lay still beneath him, heart thudding wildly for an entirely different reason now. They often found themselves in this position after making love, with Erik tiredly kissing her neck and her softly stroking the hair by the nape of his neck. She was reminded of his graceful strength, his sensual kisses, the press of skin to skin, comfortable and feverish at the same time.

It was bliss to feel him against her once more, but her soaring step forwards was riddled with loss; he weighed barely anything above her, protruding ribs pressing sharply into her own, and the rough strips of bandage tickled her chin, an ever-present reminder of his suffering.

Her Erik, and yet he was changed.

She took a shaky breath before raising her arms to wind around his shoulders, threading fingers through his hair and stroking gently. A long exhale left her lips as she felt his arms slowly move to wind underneath her shoulders, holding her tightly to him.

It was a rare, tender moment to feel him responding to her, to feel her affection and love returned. She turned her head slightly to press a firm kiss to the hair above his ear, chin grazing the irregular gauze as she did so. She would hold him for an eternity if he needed her to.

Gradually, she felt his heartbeat slow against her own, warm breath no longer panting, now deep and controlled against the skin of her neck. She closed her eyes, savouring the feeling of his body against hers, her fingers gently massaging his head, him vulnerable and open before her once more. Buried her lips into messy raven strands of hair, deeply inhaled his rich, striking scent.

Nothing could match up to this, nothing could match up to him. His body pressed to hers, his arms holding her tightly against him, his love and agony written clearly within his bones. A disfigured face didn't matter anymore to her—not when it meant that she could still hold him, still have him with her.

Her husband. Her Erik.

She let her fingers trail from his hair to his neck, loosening the tension that still quivered within his flesh. She wanted to kiss away his anxiety, protect him from anyone who dared threaten her man.

Her thumb brushed his skin soothingly. "It was just a nightmare, darling," she murmured. Above her, he took a shaky breath and she tightened her grip around him, nestling him within the shelter of her arms. "Shh, baby. It's alright—you're okay."

His voice was surprisingly deep and controlled when he responded.

"I wasn't concerned for myself."

She immediately missed his warmth as he lifted himself from her. The mattress shifted under his weight and she listened to the rustle of sheets, felt the heat of his body move away from her. Blinking cobalt eyes open, Christine lay there for a moment, staring fixatedly at the ceiling. An empty, resigned feeling settled in her stomach.

They had been so close to reconciling, and she had driven him away— _again_. She had said the wrong thing, reminded him of his past, addressed something he wanted desperately to forget.

Erik had withdrawn into himself, _again_ , and it was all because of her stupid mouth.

She sighed tiredly, resolving to follow after and console him. She was therefore surprised when she turned her head to find him sitting by the edge of the bed, back facing her and head bent forwards.

It was unexpected laced with the most pleasant surprise. Christine kept her eyes on his back, noting his uncustomary slouch, the outline of his spine clearly visible through the thin shirt he wore. _He's so skinny_ , she thought to herself sadly, eyes tracing his bony shoulders, the thin muscles of his arms.

Still, she couldn't find it in herself to be dismayed—not when he was sitting here in their room, not when he kept himself from running from her once again.

Pushing herself up with her arms, Christine lifted herself from the mattress and sat up, legs curled underneath her. She remained quiet as she watched him, resolving that he would be the first to speak, if he wanted to.

For a long moment husband and wife were silent. The night was still around them, cool and calm in the darkness. The white curtain rustled softly as a breeze brushed by, gentle and light.

"When I was involved in the war, I was tasked with tracking down the enemy," Erik began after a while. His voice was deep and low, a resigned tone lacing his rich, velvet timbre. "The Soviets had tried many times, but were always unsuccessful. The mujahideen are cunning and had an advantage over us: they had lived among their lands. They knew the landscape of every mountain, every forest. They would hide from us during the day and quietly attack at night. We would often wake to find a few dead men lying by the border of our camp."

Christine held her breath, unwilling to interrupt him. The image in her mind was ghastly and horrifying—a thought that should have made her turn away with shock and revulsion. She forced herself to hold still, to listen to his tale. Erik had never diverged anything about his time serving in the war, and she was not about to stop him when he finally did so.

"So they enlisted me." The words were desolate, said without emotion or any hint of bitterness. It was as if he was stating simple facts instead of recounting his devastating experience in the war. "I was skilled in navigation and tracking. I had never failed to locate any of my targets," — _save for Raoul_ , she thought to herself, though she knew that Erik had deliberately let her friend go— "and they assumed they could not go wrong with me."

He stopped for a moment, a long, drawn out silence echoing through the room. Christine inched herself closer so that she was directly behind him, tentatively reaching out to lay the lightest of touches upon his back. He stiffened but did not flinch.

"I must have spent four months or so searching for them," he continued, his voice a low murmur. "I used my skills to the best of my ability, but I was familiar with navigating through cities, not forests. The mountains were strangers to me. For a long time, I couldn't find them. Eventually, they found me."

She couldn't contain the gasp that escaped her lips. Christine stared at her husband's back, eyes wide and lips parted in shock at the revelation.

 _He had been captured_.

It was obvious, now, if she thought about it—the scars on his back, the disfigurement of his face, the quiet bitterness he held for the Soviet government. There was no logical reason that an ally would destroy him in such a way, and she had _known_ that he had gotten those scars from the enemy. But to hear that they had truly _captured_ him, had taken him as a _captive_ …

It was impossible, unheard of. She could not believe her ears. Erik, a _prisoner?_

And yet the proof of it was sitting in front of her eyes, head bowed and back turned to her, the image of a defeated man.

A rush of emotions flooded through her—shock, grief, heartache, devastation. But above everything there was a brimming surge of fierce, protective rage, ardent and glorious. She seethed at the men who had taken her Erik, who had damaged his face and body and left him hollow.

He hadn't deserved this—he hadn't deserved any of this. He had been a man following orders, spying because he was instructed to.

How _dare_ they?

Rising up on her knees, Christine loosened her grip on his shirt to wind her arms around his shoulders, holding him back against her. He lifted his head and leaned tiredly against her own, propped by her chin on his shoulder. She trembled and tightened her grip, her breathing shaky and uncontrolled. Angry tears threatened to escape from her eyelids and she blinked them away, pressing her mouth against his shoulder to stop her lips from quivering.

"You're crying again," Erik said, blunt and straight. She felt him let out a sigh, heavy and weary against her. "Why are you crying again?"

Cobalt eyes disappeared behind closed lids as she pressed her lips to his shoulder. The resignation, the tiredness in his tone—it threatened to rip at everything she held dear, every positive belief she'd had in her life. She felt his defeat and held it within her, determined to remember what she was feeling—this threatening helplessness at being unable to help him—so she could use it to fuel her desire to love him with everything she had.

Inhaling shakily, she raised her head from his shoulder, leaning it against his own. "I'm angry," she revealed in a whisper, staring at the bathroom door directly opposite them with a hurt, fierce look.

Erik lifted a hand and trailed calloused skin across her arm, finally reaching her wrist and threading his fingers over hers. His grip was tight and unwavering, unforgiving against her own.

"So am I," he said quietly, strongly, resolutely.

And, listening to the controlled fury within his tone, Christine couldn't help but wonder if it was solely his personal suffering that fuelled his anger.

* * *

 **A/N:** Leave a review before goes down again!


	15. Tongue Of Old

**A/N:** Every single time I get around to posting, I think to myself, _"Finally."_

Anyway—we've made it to 100 reviews! I consider this a milestone, so thank you so much for all your lovely comments! They're always a pleasure to read and a nice reward for these tiring chapters.

However, I'm sorry to say that updates might not be as frequent after this posting. I've planned about 6 more chapters and an epilogue, but a _lot_ is going to happen in these and since I'm moving to the UK in two days and will be in university by the end of next week, I think I'll be very, _very_ busy and might not be able to find time to write. So, just a general warning that a possible hiatus might be on the way.

BUT I'm determined to finish this and I have everything planned out, so I should be able to tackle this by the end of October, at least. Whatever it is, I don't think this fic will be prolonged until after December. I'll finish it within this year, I promise!

 **Warning:** Smut, ish.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Not With Haste, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _Though I may speak some tongue of old,_

 _Or even spit out some holy word,_

 _I have no strength from which to speak,_

 _When you sit me down, and see I'm weak._

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

There was something pressed against his back.

His eyes snapped open, instinctive alarm overtaking his senses. What was this—a sick ploy Jalil arranged? His body stayed still, his mind already thinking of strategies to escape from this hold without alerting his captive. It was revolting to think that someone was behind him, holding him like one would hold their lover—he could feel their breath against the shirt of his back, their arm firmly clasped around his waist. If he could just shift slightly, escape this hold—

A moan sounded from behind him, low and thick but decidedly female. He froze, blinking in confusion.

"Erik?" the voice mumbled sleepily.

Golden eyes slowly looked around the space— _room_ , he realized, _my bedroom_. The bathroom door was visible through the morning light, the air around him decidedly cooler than the camp's. He gradually registered the soft sheets below him, the warm blankets that covered his hips.

It was not Jalil—the man was no longer his concern. No; he was back home in his bed, waking up to his wife holding him in her arms.

 _Christine_.

Last night seemed more of a dream than reality. After he divulged his story, he had sat by the edge of the bed, remote and still as she held his back to her chest, her lips occasionally pressing tenderly to his hair. It had been bliss, to feel her willingly kiss him, to feel her hold him without disgust at what had become of him. He had let himself sink into her embrace, taking the comfort she offered and breathing it into himself.

He distinctly remembered drifting off in the midst of watching her sleep, her head resting against the pillow as she snored softly. They had not fallen asleep holding hands, or with their legs tangled intimately together; instead, he had faced her and she had faced him, both content with the knowledge that the other was _there_.

She must have reached out for him in their sleep, he realized. It sent a strange, warm feeling to his chest—distant yet not unfamiliar, as if he was simply coming across a dear old friend.

Erik shifted slightly, the sheets rustling lightly beneath his body as he turned, the sudden desire to see her roaring within his very soul.

Even in the mornings, she was stunning.

She was an angel with a halo of curls; wild locks spilling around her shoulders and onto the pillow, rich dark umber a stark contrast to the white sheets. A delicate hand lightly rested upon his waist, fingers soft yet firm against his shirt. She was perched by the edge of her pillow, her body dangerously close to his. It would probably have been possible to fit another person onto her side of the bed.

The expression on her face was enough to make his breath catch. His eyes traced over her half-lidded cobalt eyes, the dip of her delicate nose, the soft curve of her beautiful lips.

She was divine, celestial. He could barely believe that she was here with him.

His eyes were drawn to the curve of her mouth, the edges upturning into a small smile. Her lips were so supple, so smooth. He wanted to reach out and touch them, trace them, kiss them.

His thoughts were interrupted as the sound of a laugh, quiet and melodic, filled the air. Golden eyes immediately darted upwards to meet beguiling, breathtaking blue.

"Good morning," Christine murmured, a soft smile gracing her lips. She gazed at him with open adoration, untainted love clearly reflected within cobalt orbs, and nuzzled her head into the pillow. He found it absolutely adorable.

"Good morning," he returned in a low rumble, voice rough and thick from sleep. Her smile widened ever so slightly.

His goddess shifted closer to him, so close that they were almost sharing the same pillow. In the back of his mind, he sensed the dipping curve of her hips, the thin strength of her arms, the poised elegance of her collarbone and neck. A sudden yearning overtook him to reach a hand out and trace her soft skin with his rough, calloused fingers.

Erik took a breath, willed his body to compose itself. He would not touch her, would not dare to kiss her if she did not want him to. It was strange to think of himself next to her—half a corpse in body and mind, withering yet rebuilding himself with her by his side. She was glorious, caring, tender.

Kind.

And he was the exact opposite of everything she was.

Erik shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to block out his negative thoughts, willing himself to believe that she truly _did_ want him by her side. That she loved him enough to look past his scars, to forget what lay underneath his bandages. To accept him and take him into her arms, her body, her soul.

A sudden memory flashed through his mind, sharp and poignant. Jalil, screaming and cursing within his dreams. Nadir, shouting at the man to stop this horror, to leave him be. A pain so blinding it overtook his senses, brought him to the brink of his sanity. Begging for death, his mind no longer caring that he wanted to stay on this earth because of her, because Christine still existed within this world, because there could be no Erik without Christine.

And then waking up to race to the bathroom only to look up into the mirror and meet Christine's horrified expression, nauseous and disgusted and repelled by the mangled mess that was his face.

No, Christine did not desire him any longer. How could she when she had seen how ugly he was? How ugly and unfinished, a product of carving and skinning, a resulting creation of bone and missing flesh… She would not accept his body and the imperfections it now offered.

And yet, his fingers still twitched with an ache to hold her, caress her, touch her. He vaguely remembered that underneath the blanket, she was clad in nothing but his shirt, the material barely skimming past her mid-thigh. It had surely ridden up to her waist through the night—

Erik abruptly sat up on the bed, making Christine jerk backwards, startled. "Are you hungry?" he asked quickly, then, without waiting for an answer, swung long legs over to the side of the bed and stood. "I'll make you breakfast." And, without another word, he walked to the bathroom to change his bandages, shutting the door tightly behind him.

He crossed to the sink and grabbed its edges, struggling to calm his racing heart, his heated body. He was thrumming with the desire to touch her, to feel her as he had felt her a thousand times before. Making love to Christine was a novelty, before the war—now it felt like a necessity.

"You can't," he told himself sternly, his eyes shutting tightly as his grip against the sink hardened. His head was bowed, his shoulders clenched and taut. "She doesn't want you to. You are her husband, but that does not give you the right to take her body without her consent. Stop fantasizing about her—let it go."

The words were easier said than done, a painful truth he forced himself to recognize. Taking a few deep breaths, Erik willed himself to calm down before he went through the usual routine of changing his bandages, wiping down his scars and toweling his skin with warm water. Disgust no longer filled him at the feel of sunken skin and tattered flesh, his fingers now used to touching such ghastliness. His eyes, however, still refused to look into the mirror, choosing to rely on his sense of touch rather than sight when completing the task.

Upon entering the kitchen he retrieved ingredients to prepare a simple, light breakfast for his wife. There was no need to whisk an extra egg—his appetite was not as large as it was before—but he prepared himself an extra slice of toast, knowing that she would reprimand him if he were to go another day without breakfast.

He felt rather than heard when Christine entered the room. It would have been effortless to listen to the soft padding of her feet, the light breaths she let out, but he noticed her presence by the way his skin started to flush, his heart skipping a beat. He finished pouring the last of her eggs onto her plate before turning to face her.

She stood before him, staring at him as he stared at her. Golden eyes scanned her form, taking in the sleeveless summer dress she was clad in, pastel green molding to her soft curves, delicate and womanly upon her body. Her hair fell in loose curls down her shoulders—still wild, still untamed, and yet somehow decidedly feminine. Her cheeks were flushed, her pink lips parted, her cobalt eyes wide and trained on his.

He cleared his throat, shifting on one foot. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you," she returned graciously, though she did not smile.

A thick tension filled the air as they sat to eat. Both husband and wife were silent, choosing to focus on their meals rather than speak to each other. He was sharply aware of her every moment—the clatter of her fork against the plate, the movement of her jaw as she chewed, the swell of her throat as she swallowed. She was intoxicating—a stunning angel, the kindest, loveliest creature he had ever been blessed with. She was here, she was sitting with him, she loved him.

And she was untouchable.

The meal was uncomfortable. Christine had interrupted their silence once, saying, "Thank you for telling me all that yesterday—what happened to you, and all." Her words had been awkward and forced, and from the wince she let out as she looked back down to her plate, Erik surmised that she had intended to sound a little more genuine. He had wanted to respond with a heartfelt apology—perhaps mention his quiet gratitude that she had allowed him to speak to her about the war—but instead ended up giving her a stiff nod before returning to his meal.

There was a silent thrum of anticipation filling the air, though Erik could not have suspected what it would entail. He wondered what she was thinking—if she was remembering their tender morning before he had abruptly interrupted it with his untamed desire. It would surely explain the cause of this awkwardness, this uncomfortable feeling that settled between them. He wasn't sure how to approach her, how to talk to her—if he was supposed to argue with her or kiss her.

Again, he shook himself away from those unwanted thoughts. _She doesn't want you in that way_ , he firmly reminded himself. He would learn to live with merely her presence to keep him content; her body was no longer an option of comfort to him.

When they were finished with their meal, Erik rose from the table to bring his plate to the sink, resolving that he would wash the dishes later. It would be another day of sitting on the sofa with nothing to do apart from stare aimlessly around their small flat.

Just as he was about to retire to his spot by the sofa, Christine spoke.

"Erik?"

He turned to face her, caught sight of her lovely lip caught between her teeth, a hesitant line crossing her forehead. She looked absolutely enchanting.

"Can I sit with you?" she asked tentatively, peering up at him through long lashes.

He nodded slowly.

They settled on the sofa together, with Erik leaning against the cushion as Christine curled up against him. She had taken his arm and draped it over her shoulders, allowing him to pull her closer. It felt comfortable, sweet—similar to their days before the war, when everything had been perfect between them.

It was pleasant to sit with her, to enjoy her presence in their unhurried silence. He could almost imagine that she _wanted_ him to hold her, that this wasn't some pity act of offering the warmth of her body to him because he had suffered for so long. The thought was enough to make him grimace and he shifted slightly against her, trying to ignore the wisp of her breath against his collar, the light, tortures feel of her fingers tracing patterns on his clothed chest.

Enough to make him clear his throat and pull away. "Christine," he warned, " _don't."_

Christine lifted her head from his shoulder, forehead creasing in a frown. "What's wrong?" she implored, the question innocent and unsuspecting.

Oh, if only she knew that he was burning with the force of her love, that she had given him what nobody had offered in his return from the war: comfort. Last night, when she had listened to his sad tale, when she had allowed him to reveal to her what she never wanted to hear before… He remembered disclosing information about his task to spy on the Afghans, of the mujahideen attacking their camps at night, of finding dead soldiers in the morning—not enough to make a difference, but enough to serve as a warning…

How was she not repulsed by him?

How could she curl up next to him, have held him and pressed kisses to his hair as she had done last night? Christine had never condoned violence or suspicion—it was unlikely that she did not feel uncomfortable or horrified, that she was not disgusted by the stories of war.

Erik stared at her, at her wide, blue eyes and fair, unmarked skin and parted pink lips, and sighed.

"You told me once that you couldn't stand the tension between us," he began quietly. "That you felt like you were walking on eggshells around me."

"Yes," she nodded slowly, "but I don't feel that way anymore."

"I do."

He watched as hurt clouded her eyes, deep and sharp, instantly making him regret his words. Christine's frown deepened and she sat up, tucking her feet underneath her as she did so. A glimpse of her creamy thigh caught his eye and he looked away, hating himself.

He felt her swallow beside him and refused to look at her, fixing his stare on the armrest of their sofa. It was a deep, forest green, something he had chosen when they redecorated the house together. He could only think of how it perfectly complimented Christine's pastel green dress.

Behind him, his wife shifted. "Erik?" she prodded, and he closed his eyes, hating how hesitant she sounded. "Why do you feel that way? Am I... am I making you uncomfortable?"

A chuckle escaped his lips, low and humourless. _Oh, if only she knew._ With his eyes still closed, his head turned to the direction of hers. "Yes," he answered, before elaborating, "but not in the way you think I am."

She lifted a cautious hand to his cheek and he shuddered beneath her as her fingers grazed his bandages. He let out a dissonant groan, unsure of what she was doing, unsure if he should tell her to stop or continue. _He wanted her touch so badly..._ A warning of, "Christine..." escaped his lips, firm yet helpless.

Him and his disfigured body, wanting something she had given him when he had been perfect for her.

It was enough for him to snap to his senses when he felt the faint brush of her lips against his; he forced himself to pull away, even as he ached to feel her against him. How he yearned for her, how he craved her—him, this pathetic, weakened man who could not prevent himself from getting captured in the war. His wife was too good for him—this perfect creature who pitied and loved him. He heard a sharp exhale escaped her lips, breath warm against his lips, hopeless and frustrated. Erik sighed, knowing that he would need to explain.

"You… you don't need to kiss me to make me feel better," he murmured. "I don't understand how you can _want_ to kiss me after you listened to what I told you yesterday."

Her eyes flew to his, wide with disbelief. "Is that what you think this is?" she whispered incredulously. "That me kissing you is an act of pity? None of this was your fault."

An exasperated exhale escaped his lips, sharp and tired. _Of course_ , he thought to himself, _she doesn't know_. He hadn't told her the rest of the story—how he had foolishly believed in his superiority, how he had failed himself when he failed them, and Khan…

 _Khan_. His eyes clenched shut painfully at the thought of the quiet man, always considerate, always helpful. Kind, like his Christine, and a _good_ man.

Christine let out a sigh, interrupting his thoughts. She regarded him carefully, cobalt eyes searching his golden ones.

"I _hate_ what you've had to go through," she began, "and I _hate_ that I wasn't there for you, before. You didn't deserve any of that, Erik; you didn't deserve to be hurt in that way." He watched her expressionlessly, warily holding her gaze, listening to words she spoke of but _didn't understand_. She didn't understand that it was his fault—that he should have been more careful that day when the mujahideen's camp was supposedly deserted. He had been cocky and overconfident, and his careless actions had caused so much loss.

Still, his wife continued, blissfully unaware of the rest of his story. "I was selfish and stupid and focused on my unhappiness rather than on you. And while I want us to be comfortable around each other again, I want to kiss you more because—because—"

She broke off helplessly, shrugging. Erik watched her with an unreadable expression, his eyes deep pools of melted sunlight, sparks of gold shooting behind a steady gaze. "Because?" he prodded quietly, curious by her hesitation, the sudden flush that coloured her cheeks.

She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing.

" _Why_ do you want to kiss me?" he continued, tone soft and low. "You _know_ what lies underneath this." With a free hand, he gestured to the bandages around his face, remembering the time she had seen him without it—her fear, horror, disgust...

His Christine, a woman who asked for something she didn't understand. He _knew_ that she would turn away from him, that perhaps time had dulled her perception of his face. If _he_ could not gaze upon his own flesh, he could not expect her to.

No—she must pity him. It was the only explanation he could think of.

"You've seen me, Christine," Erik sighed tiredly. "You've seen me and my _face_ , and you still want to kiss me." He stared at her unwaveringly. "I want to know why."

Christine frowned at him, straightening at his firm, demanding words. "Why?" she questioned, puzzled. "Isn't it obvious?"

His gaze did not soften. "Enlighten me."

"I love you," she answered plainly, her tone establishing fact. "Isn't that enough for me to want to kiss you?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

She was beautiful before him—a fierce angel, sure of her words, unyielding in her declaration, and yet he could not find it in himself to believe her. Months of distrust, of being shunned and abused had hardened him back into the man he had been before he'd met her: firm, resolute, protective of himself and only himself. He stared at her, stoically and solidly regarding her, trying to discern some other reason to her sudden act of generosity.

Christine looked down, and for a moment she seemed dismayed, shattered—though for what reason, he could not fathom. It was her turn to take a breath, and she inhaled, trembling and unsteady before his eyes. He watched her closely through guarded eyes, observed how her features slowly melted into a frown, her eyes now focused on something else.

It was then that he realized she had caught hold of the deep, cutting bruises on his wrists, a result of binding rope. Immediately he felt his walls rise once more, a protective barrier against her. He made to pull away but she held him fast, bringing his hand up to her eyes.

"Where did you get these?" she asked quietly, fingers softly stroking the cutting scars.

Erik looked away. "They used rope."

"To tie your hands together?"

"Yes."

Christine took a shaky breath beside him, deep and painful. His jaw clenched, unwilling turn back to look at her and see her pity, see her feeling sorry for him. He would _not_ let himself crumble in front of her.

And then, there was the most beautiful feeling. Soft lips lightly grazed his skin, hesitant and tentative at first before they grew more bold, dragging around his wrist, kissing every mark. Golden eyes darted to look at her, watch her caress his broken flesh with her mouth, cobalt eyes daringly holding his gaze. She brought his other hand up to her face, paid the same amount of attention to it.

His heart was racing wildly, his breaths shaky and uneven. Christine was kissing his mangled, ruined flesh, and she wasn't repulsed by it.

 _She wasn't repulsed by it._

"I've told you time and time again that I love you, and I will keep reminding you for the rest of your life." She looked deeply into his eyes, holding his hands in hers, firm and sheltering, and took a deep breath. "But I want to kiss you not only because I love you. I want to kiss you because..."

She shrugged helplessly and he wanted to scream at her, wanted to shake her and demand that she finish what she was saying. He was hanging onto every word, feeling an impossible hope rise within his chest, faint and distant but strong in his faith. Her kisses had ignited a flame within him, deep and smouldering and encompassing. He ached to know what she meant by her words, yearned for the possibility of her wanting him the way he wanted her. Could she possibly be hinting at the promise of something more…?

Christine shifted slightly, her movements bringing her body closer to his. The sofa was wide, but he didn't care about the empty space she left behind—not when he could feel the heat of her body against his skin, warm and beautiful and _alive_. She was so close, now; he could almost taste her breath on his tongue.

"I want you," she said plainly, and his breath caught. "I want you like I used to have you—kissing me, loving me, _touching_ me..."

He let out a helpless shiver against her, deep and resounding. Instantly, his hardened gaze melted into a heated one, golden eyes now thrumming with defenceless anticipation. Desire was written plainly on his face and—oh, _yes,_ he wanted her. He closed his eyes as she leaned into him, feeling the tickle of her soft lips against his earlobe, drawing a hitched breath from him.

"Your scars don't affect the way I desire you," she whispered into his ear, warm breath against his shivering flesh. A hand snaked around his neck, cradling his head, gentle even as she tempted him with her words. "These months of being so close to you and not being able to _feel_ you in this way—they were torturous. You're still the same man I fell in love with, the same man I married, and I want you in _exactly_ the same way."

"No," he muttered with a shake his head, disbelief clouding his thoughts. "Time has made you forget what I look like, Christine. If you see me, you'll scream again—"

"Erik," she interrupted, "I'm sorry, but to be honest with you, I really don't give a _shit_ about what you look like."

A pause lingered between bated breaths as he stared at her, openly gaping. Christine was never one to swear, but here she was; his fierce angel of music, his beautiful, loving woman—and god help him, for he suddenly found himself helplessly, _impossibly_ aroused by her words.

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do apart from search her flawless features for any sign of pity, any sign that she was merely saying this to placate him—but there was only her darkened, soulful eyes, her wild, curly locks, her face that was merely inches from his. He breathed in her air, inhaled her into himself.

A cautious hand released its hold on his wrists and lifted slowly, grazing his chin. He closed his eyes, savouring the feel of her thumb stroking his jaw, lightly touching his bandages, moving to trace his mouth. His lips parted for her as she ran her thumb over them, his heart beating wildly at her gentle yet firm touch.

"So: can I kiss you?"

Bold, unyielding, _Christine._ Oh, she would surely be the death of him.

Slowly, Erik managed to give her a faint nod. And then she was rising up on her knees, holding his face gently in her arms, and bringing her lips to his.

Kissing her was like finally breathing again.

There was never a moment when Christine's lips weren't soft; even during the coldest winters, she was determined to keep her lips from chapping, always ensuring to reapply her lip balm. Before the war, he had always revelled in her choice to keep them moisturised, taking every opportunity to press his thin ones against hers. She had patronised him for his dry ones, often complaining that she would much rather prefer pecking smooth lips rather than chapped ones. Still, he hardly ever heard her complain when he pressed his mouth to hers.

They'd had sweet kisses, light kisses, playful kisses. Kisses that made her laugh into his mouth and kisses exchanged before they went to bed. Then, there were ravishing ones, ones that left him gasping for breath and hungry for her, ones that ignited his body and held infinite promises of _more_. He could never tire of kissing her—would never _want_ to tire of it. She was his essence, his very life, and she was here, holding his face in her hands, pressing her lips to his, soft and sweet.

Erik let out a shuddering sigh when she pulled back from their pure, simple kiss. He could still taste her lips on his, the faint hint of apples lingering on his bottom lip. He stared at her, utterly intoxicated by her, enchanted by this angel whose love he didn't deserve.

He brought a pale, thin hand up to caress her smooth, perfect cheek, and brought her lips back to his.

This time, their kiss was not soft, but filled with a hunger both had been trying to suppress for months. His eternal yearning seeped through his lips, hard and persistent against hers, and Christine— _Christine_. She responded with a fervor he eagerly devoured, her perfect nose brushing his bandages as she kissed him again and again. A roaring flame started within him, burning him with desire for her and he soared at the feel of her body moulding itself to his, instinctively wrapped his arms around her waist as she swung her knee over his lap and straddled him, pressing her curves to his.

She was here, she was kissing him, and he wanted her.

Oh _god_ , how he wanted her.

He wanted to make her moan for him, to touch and kiss her until she was shaking with unbridled need, to make her writhe and cry out his name. A deep ache settled within his chest, the desire to know that with this, he could still be the same man, could still pleasure her with everything that he had.

He wanted to know that _this_ hadn't been taken away from him when he had lost everything else.

Five minutes ago, Erik would have been distinctly embarrassed if Christine were to notice his obviously tightening trousers, but with her upon his lap and obviously feeling him hardened beneath her, he couldn't bring himself to care. He thrummed off a high of wanting to please her, the possessive notion of wanting to _own_ her body and know that her gasps and cries were for him and only him. It was natural to part her lips with his tongue, to thread his fingers into her untamed curls. A triumphant blaze roared within his chest at the sound of her moan breathed into his mouth and he pressed himself to her, drunk off her sensual curves brushing his chest, her fingers tugging at his scalp.

She finally broke away to gasp for air and he dragged his lips down her jaw, caressing and tonguing her neck with a practiced familiarity. "Erik," she said, his name a breathless sigh upon her lips. He buried his ruined face against her skin, sheltering himself within her sweet, honeyed hair.

"I want to touch you," he rasped, his voice taking on a rough tone as he grazed his teeth against her skin, knowing it would draw out a hitched gasp from her.

She fisted at his scalp and he couldn't contain the groan that escaped his lips. "I want to—to touch you, as well," she panted, closing her eyes as he nipped at her neck, tongue drawing tantalising patterns upon her skin.

His lips slowed at her words and he rested his face against her neck, breathing heavily.

He didn't want her touching him.

It was bliss to feel her lips against the scars on his wrists, her fingers lightly tracing the crevices hidden beneath his bandages. But if she were to take off his protection, see the scars on his back and chest and face, uncover his wounds and expose him completely…

It was terrifying to think of.

How could he tell her that he didn't want her touch? That he loved her, he trusted her, but this— _this_ was something he could not willingly let her see. Perhaps he might allow her gaze upon his ruined flesh in their distant future, but the thought of it was enough to make his skin crawl and shudder.

"Please," he murmured raggedly against her throat, "don't ask that of me—just let me touch you. Let me _feel_ you."

Christine was silent for a long moment and he lifted his head, stared at her flushed cheeks, her quick breaths, her swollen lips, finally resting on her beautiful blue eyes. Her expression was unreadable—before she gave him a single nod, slow and sure.

He couldn't hold back the exhale of relief. Bringing her face down to his, he caught her lips in a soft, gentle kiss, a silent token of his appreciation at her understanding.

It was familiar to drag his fingers down the zip of her dress and help her out of it. She shook her hair out, tousled locks tumbling down her shoulders in soft curls as he watched, entranced. Her skin was delectable and smooth, a sharp contrast to the broken skin underneath his shirt and he roamed his eyes over her body, taking in her lean stomach, her dancer's legs. A soft hand caught his, leading him to her back, helping him undo the clasp of her bra and his breath caught as she shook out of it, exposing her lovely breasts to his eyes.

He could not fathom how she would want his tainted fingers upon her skin, but here she was: ardent and magnificent, boldly staring at him with a breathless anticipation within her cobalt gaze. Slowly, hesitantly, he brought a pale hand up to lightly trace the delicate curve of her breast, feeling her chest contract beneath his fingers as she let out a long sigh. He touched her with a lover's caress, brushing thumb and finger over her soft skin. She was beautiful, his woman; a goddess of strength and grace, his salvation.

He wanted to touch her, to regain his expertise over her body once more. To know that despite all that had been taken from him, he could still love his wife, could still make him cry out with his kiss and touch and thrust of hips. He _wanted_ this power, wanted to feel her falling apart because of him.

Gently, he coaxed her off his lap so she could lie against the sofa, resting her head upon the armrest. She gazed up at him openly, beautifully, and he couldn't help but lean down and catch her lips, to kiss her with all the love he possessed in his soul. God, to feel her beneath him, skin bare for him to see and touch—it was bliss, and he cherished every moment of it, dragging his fingers down her skin, lightly stroking her breasts, her stomach, her navel.

When his hand slipped into the waistband of her underwear, she let out a long moan, beautiful and unhurried to his ears. Her arms wound around his neck as he caressed her intimately, easily drawing upon the memories of their private moments, remembering how she would shudder at the circle of his thumb, the brush of his fingers. She brought his lips down to hers as his fingers disappeared inside her, stroking and kneading her inner walls.

 _Oh_ —she was so soft around his fingers, warm and wet, a phenomenon of womanhood around his skin. He was entranced, aroused, awakened by her—her and her moans swallowed into the secret depths of his throat, her fingers threaded between the locks covering his scalp.

Tenderly, he made love to her with his fingers, thrumming with desire and love as he kissed her lips, her cheek, her neck. The sound of Christine's moans, quiet and soft at first before increasing to breathless gasps of his name, was enough to send his blood rushing through his veins, pounding loudly in his ear. Yes, _this_ was what he had been craving; her body tossing and twisting beneath his, sweat gathering by the column of her throat, her voice raised and contorted in the most incredible, _sensual_ way. Her breaths quickened and he increased his pace within her, wanting to bring her over the edge, wanting to pleasure her with his lips and touch and body. A cry escaped her lips when he curled his fingers within her and he moved to claim her lips once more, kissing her with a fevered urgency, running off the high she gave him.

"Christine," he groaned into her mouth as his fingers worked at her body, "Christine—oh, god, Christine. I love you."

"Erik," she gasped, spinning higher into herself. He swallowed her breath, urging her on with the curl of his fingers, the rub of his thumb. A broken cry escaped her lips, pitched high and urgent.

"Tell me you love me," he ordered, suddenly seized by the frantic need to listen to those words tumble from her lips. She was writhing and moaning underneath him but he leaned to brush his lips against her ear, desperate and needy. "Tell me, Christine."

"Erik—"

" _Tell me_ , Christine."

"I love you," she moaned and he thrived at her words, fingers still frantically working within her. "It's only ever been you—my Erik—"

"My Christine."

Perhaps it was his words, or perhaps it was his touch—but soon she was clenching around his fingers, a long stream of moans escaping her lips as she sobbed out his name, falling apart around him, below him, against him. Erik kissed her face as she grasped at his hair, dragging his lips over every inch of her perfect, unblemished skin, skimming his mouth over her forehead, eyelids, cheekbones and nose before finally pressing his lips to hers.

Slowly, she regained herself once more. Shallow, hitched gasps descended into slower, deeper breaths; hazy, unfocused blue orbs gradually cleared to focus on him. Erik stared down at his wife, golden eyes tracing her swollen lips, her half-lidded eyes, her flushed skin still thrumming with the after effects of pleasure, and felt a possessive, dominant pride. _This_ was what he had wanted: her body dissolving around him, all tired bones and satisfied flesh.

 _He_ had done this—him: ruined, deformed Erik. He had been stripped of his position within the government, his reputation within the army, his dignity within the mujahideen camp, but he could still make his wife fall apart for him, could still please her and love her and make her dizzy with need and want and _him_.

The hand still buried between her legs slowly withdrew fingers from her flesh and, holding her gaze, he brought them up to his lips, licking the taste of her from his skin. He glowed in the way her lips parted, the way her eyes latched onto his mouth as he licked each finger clean. Her desire, her love; it was all written plainly on her face, and he buried himself within it, wanting nothing but her.

Christine brought his face down to hers once he had swallowed the last remains of her essence on his fingers, claiming his lips with a deep, dizzying kiss. He leaned against her, pressing her body into the sofa, loving the way she sighed contentedly into his mouth, sated and happy.

It was only when he walked into the bathroom to change his bandages that he noticed the strips were already halfway undone.

* * *

 ** _October — November 1980_**

The next few weeks in the village were—surprisingly—peaceful.

Each day passed with ease, with nothing that signified that the mujahideen were under any supposed threat. Soldiers and villagers alike rose every morning to tend to their daily tasks: watering withering plants, tending to the animals, washing dirtied clothes. The men of the army moved to aid the people with their routines, eager to blend in with the little town; by the end of the first week, they had become comfortable in loose slacks and clean shirts, relaxed under the softened heat, entertained by watching the children laugh and run in circles around the square. They befriended the people, choosing to contribute rather than retire, to live rather than hide.

That was not to say, however, that they were not constantly alert. Soldiers were still positioned by the edges of the village, hidden amongst tall trees and thick bushes, scanning their environment for any sign of a Soviet. They kept pistols concealed underneath loose clothes, secured their uniforms under beds and floor tiles to ensure there would be no sign of a soldier within the village. It was daunting and relieving to let each day pass without a threat to look out for, allowing them to ease back into the simplicities their lives had once offered before they had been enlisted.

Erik was no less comfortable by the arrangement. Jalil—to his exasperated relief—had chosen not to continue his irritating interrogations, gruffly concluding that the pale man stood out enough in the village without the addition of open wounds and red streaks running down his chest at the end of each day. Identifying him as a prisoner would make the villagers suspicious, and so Erik was allowed his unbound hands back, exempted from the daily torture the General chose to brand upon him. It was satisfying to walk amongst the villagers once again, and even more rewarding to catch glimpses of Jalil's sour face whenever he did so. The man was exceptionally grouchy without his daily dose of inflicting scars upon Erik's skin, the jolly, merry General long gone. It gave Erik a smug thrill to see the man so disgruntled.

The lack of questioning left his days free to do as he wished. He lurked around the village, knowing that the colour of his skin was enough to cause suspicion within the villagers, and watched from the sidelines, ensuring that their daily occurrences were not disrupted in any way. Each day passed with the reminder that these women and children were innocents, that these men who walked amongst them were young and inexperienced, and he sought to shield them the best he could.

And then, there was Khan.

They had built a fragile companionship in the time they had spent together in their abandoned home, running off wary trust and rigid agreements. He was grudgingly grateful to Khan for all he had done, noticing the man's righteousness in the way he was kind to the villagers, in the way he told stories to the children. Khan never allowed him to miss a meal, always bringing in food warm from the stove every morning and night. By the end of the first week, Erik had taken to sneaking an appreciative nod out of the window towards the woman in the house opposite them, knowing that it was she whom Khan obtained the meals from.

Khan's wife was a beautiful woman. Erik watched her during the days, noting her charming elegance when speaking to the other women, her soft demeanour when addressing her boy. She wore loose clothing, choosing to don light kurta tops in the cool breeze that November brought, a thin scarf always wrapped flowingly around her hair, revealing the hint of soft, black locks. Khan was never seen with her, and Erik would often catch him staring longingly at her from a distance as he worked with the other soldiers, occasionally catching her eye as he lifted furniture to be rearranged in the soldiers' homes. She had never betrayed any hint of affection towards him save for casual glances, the quirk of her lips whenever she caught him looking at her.

It was during these moments that Erik felt the ache for Christine the most. Khan and his wife reminded him of times he would spend spectating rehearsals in the Bolshoi theatre, how he would sternly maintain professionalism and yet soften whenever she looked up at him, whenever he heard her voice trill a particularly difficult note. With no violence to distract him from his wife, he found himself thinking of her more often, remembering her deep blue eyes, her soft, playful smile. He craved her presence next to him, yearned to take her into his arms once more.

He missed her so, _so_ much.

He came across them that evening, walking back from the abandoned home he and Khan frequented. He had been loitering by the edges of the camp, having settled by a boulder with a sheet of paper and pen he had swiped from the home, noting down idle melodies in his head. Running compositions were loose in his mind, his muse returning with the sudden change from consistent paranoia, the startling renewal of calm, and he had needed to jot them down before losing them completely. Hours had passed with the frantic scratch of pen on paper—writing down notes and songs and tunes, letting himself exist within the music in his mind for the first time in _months_ —before he had noticed the sky start to dim, the clouds start to gather.

His compositions were neatly folded and stuffed into the lining of his trousers, a vain attempt to keep them shielded from the light drizzle that threatened to erupt into a full-fledged storm. He crossed around the village, ducking behind houses inhabited by soldiers and small families alike, each group retiring after the work of a breezy day. The house he and Khan occupied was nearby—he could see it from where he was standing, boots scuffing against wet sandy dirt, fingers brushing against brick as he walked by the homes.

The sight of three standing by the backdoor of a home, however, made him stop in his tracks.

The first thing he noticed was that Khan's wife was not wearing her scarf. Her hair was woven into a loose braid, tumbling down her shoulder softly, long and black and silky. She was smiling, a pleasantly wide spread of full lips, revealing pearly white teeth. Her gaze was not, however, directed upon Khan, but upon their son.

The boy was young; he could not have been older than nine. With messy brown locks, short, round nose and large hazel eyes, he was the spitting image of Khan. He was chatting amiably—from what Erik could hear, he was enthusing about winning a game against the other village boys; the boy was quite loud in his excitement—his grin wide, his eyes bright.

Khan was kneeling so he could be at the boy's height, listening intently with a gentle expression upon his face. From where Erik stood, concealed within the corner behind another house, he could distinctly notice that the man looked uncharacteristically young. His forehead was smooth, his lips curled into a small smile. He looked untroubled, unworried.

Happy.

The sight of the little family sent a sharp, unfamiliar ache down Erik's stomach. He could not name the feeling for the life of him; not this observation of a husband listening as his child wove on stories, his wife watching amusedly with a fond hand upon the child's shoulder.

It was tender, personal. He felt as if he were intruding on a private moment, and would have left if not for the fact that Khan would notice should he move from his spot.

From his spot, he watched as the woman patted the child on the shoulder, gently reminding him that it was time for them to retire. The boy pouted, obviously disappointed to have to leave his father, and Khan smiled affectionately at him, saying something in a low tone. It must have placated the boy, for he nodded resignedly and accepted a hug from his father before he withdrew into the home.

The door closed behind them and Khan straightened, rising once more to his feet. Erik watched as husband and wife interacted, exchanging words in soft, murmured tones, so quiet that he could not discern what they were saying. They spoke with a comforting familiarity, a practiced ease.

The way he and Christine spoke to each other.

The woman held no trace of the warmth she wore around her son now, however—fear was plainly written on her face, etched into the crease of her forehead, the glow of her grey eyes. She spoke in hushed tones, looking up worriedly at her husband, gesturing into the house where their son was. She was obviously addressing their current situation, anxious about the soldiers in the camp.

Khan, however, simply lifted a hand to her cheek, caressing her skin with soft strokes of his thumb. His voice was low but clear, and from where he was standing, Erik was able to catch his words.

"I will keep you safe, Rookheeya, no matter what happens," he promised firmly, gazing deeply into her eyes. "I won't let anything happen to you or Reza. I swear it."

Erik quietly snuck away as husband and wife moved into an embrace, fighting back the hollow emptiness within his chest and venturing into the rain towards the abandoned house.

He was brushing the dirt off his boots, sitting on a chair within the home when Khan finally entered. Erik looked up at the sound of the door opening, the fall of rain shutting off as it closed behind the man. Khan gave him a small nod in greeting, wiping the droplets of rain that had gathered into his beard, before he reached into the pouch he had been carrying, pulling out a container of mixed rice.

They ate quietly, only breaking their silence whenever one had a comment on the events of the day, the happenings of the army boys. It was surprisingly comfortable to share a meal without needing to worry about the other soldiers, Jalil's orders, the resignation of having to bear another day of endless torture. Khan was not as talkative as usual, and when Erik looked up he noticed the man's contemplative expression as he gazed at a distant spot in the room. Erik merely resumed his meal noiselessly, content to let the man be.

He rose from the table once he finished eating, moving towards the sink to clean his plate. Khan still hadn't moved from his seat, still deep in thought. His gaze, however, had drifted from the walls of the room to face the window, observing the distant image of the woman and child sitting by the kitchen table in the home opposite them, playing a children's game of slapping palms and quick fingers.

Erik watched him carefully, noting how the man seemed to soften at the sight of his wife and child. He spoke without thinking. "They will be fine, Khan."

Khan's gaze snapped to his, hazel eyes narrowed in confusion. "What?" he questioned, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean precisely what I say," Erik shrugged, leaning against the sink and crossing his arms. He gestured towards the window, acknowledging the two inhabitants of the home opposite them, laughing together as the child caught the woman's finger. "They will be fine."

"You don't know that," Khan muttered with a shake of his head, pretenses of bravado and firm confidence melting away. He turned to look back at the window, observing his family quietly.

Silence stretched between them, prolonged and absolute. Erik watched as the woman leaned in to kiss the boy's nose, loving and affectionate, and felt a distant ache within his chest. He pictured Christine in that very same position: Christine with a little boy on her lap, smiling down at him as she softly sang him a lullaby. A little boy with brown ringlets and wide, golden eyes, a child created by their love…

"Do you know what it is to love, Erik?" Khan asked, never once taking his gaze away from the window.

Erik blinked, suddenly brought back to reality once more. He cleared his throat, shaking away the remains of his fanciful dream—a dream he now realized he desperately wanted to be true. He took a breath, forced himself to focus on Khan's question. "Yes," he answered simply, thinking of his Christine. "I do."

"Then you know that when it comes to the ones you love, you cannot fail."

Khan's words rang in the air, deep and resounding and true. Beyond their borders, men were falling in alarming numbers, leaving behind their wives, leaving behind their families and children and lovers. The war raged on, ruthless and without mercy, a screaming killer of humankind. Lives could be lost at any minute—any second.

Erik could not blame Khan for worrying.

They remained silent, with Khan sitting on the chair by the table and Erik leaning against the counter of the sink. Both men watched as the woman and child finally rose from the table, as the boy yawned sleepily and tugged at his mother's hand, leading her out of the room. A minute later, the light flickered off, bathing the house in darkness.

Khan sighed, turning away from the window. "What is her name?" he asked quietly, staring across the room at the door that led to his quarters. "Your woman—your wife?" He glanced at his companion, who gave a single, stiff nod.

Erik lifted a hand to his chest, thumbed the outline of the golden locket that hung around his neck, barely visible underneath his thin shirt. "Christine," he said softly, picturing her face in her mind, her smile and her laugh and her impossibly blue eyes. "Her name is Christine."

"A religious name," Khan observed, leaning back against his chair. " _'Follower of Christ'_. Unusual, for a Soviet. Doesn't communism prohibit religion?"

"She's Swedish."

"Ah," he nodded in understanding.

They fell back into silence, this time thoughtful and contemplative. Erik clasped the locket in his palm, scrunching his shirt around his fingers as he did so, and shut his eyes tightly. His heart ached, his mind was racing, his fingers bare without hers twining through the gaps of his.

How he _missed_ her.

Khan drummed his fingers against the surface of the table, long, uncut black hair falling over his eyes. "We wanted to give our daughter a religious name, should she have one," he revealed, watching the movement of his fingers. "We would call her 'Ayesha'."

"What does it mean?" Erik asked, observing the man reservedly.

"It means _'woman'_ ," Khan said softly. " _'Life'_."

This time, their quiet was not obtrusive, stretched without interruption. Both men remained hushed, each bearing a quiet understanding of an unsaid proclamation hanging within the air, a silent declaration of their loyalties towards their families that surpassed their service towards the army. They were drafted and forced into war, chosen to participate in a business neither approved of. It felt relieving to share this thought with someone, to know that he was not the only one who could love another so fiercely, so wholeheartedly, so completely. The night was silent, stars littering the black sky, watchful guardians in the midst of battle. It felt comforting—peaceful.

He should have known it wouldn't last.

* * *

 **A/N:** Oooh, this is when shit will start to hit the fan! I promise to write whenever I'll be able to—I'm really excited about the next chapter, and I hope that you guys are, too!


	16. See Myself Clearer

**A/N:** I have _finally_ found time to post! This chapter is relatively shorter than the others, but it was the best I could whisk up within the week. I've been really busy with moving into London and settling down. Thank you for all the well wishes, by the way! Despite the rain and gloomy weather, I'm loving it here.

Also I feel like I should announce a monumental event last week: **I finally watched The Phantom of the Opera live**. I have been a fan for quite a while now, but have never actually watched the show live—until last Wednesday. It was phenomenal. The London cast is terrific—I went to see John Owen Jones (holy fuck, he was _fantastic_ ), Celinde Schoenmaker and Nadim Naaman (I thought he was incredible, one of the best Raoul's I've seen—though I only have bootlegs to compare his performance to). I can't express how much I enjoyed it, how immersed I was in it. To listen to the music _live_ , to sit directly in front of the orchestra and hear the first notes of the overture being played, to see the chandelier swing down and collapse instead of watching it spark and burn in the 25th Anniversary recording... It was phenomenal. I absolutely loved it.

Thought I should share, since you guys are as crazy about Phantom as I am. Enjoy the chapter, and leave a review! I'm busy with settling into uni life, but reviews are always an extra incentive to write quickly.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, I'll Be Good, belongs to Jaymes Young.

* * *

 _I thought I saw the devil, this morning._

 _Looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue,_

 _With the warning to help me see myself clearer._

* * *

 ** _November 1980_**

Erik woke before dawn.

He couldn't have explained why he did, nor could he understand what it was that woke him up. It was merely a feeling—a shivering, hair-raising feeling that did not sit well with him. Alone in the small dark room, sitting upright on his single bed and lumpy mattress, Erik was awake and alert.

The village slept on. He could not hear a hint of distress or uneasiness, no sign of anything in the wrong. It was silent and still, a community of drowsy inhabitants slumbering on before the hint of sunlight shone through. The animals, too, were quiet—lazily grazing in their stalls and pens, content to let themselves be. It was tranquil, calm, peaceful.

And yet.

There was something incredibly, irrevocably _wrong_. Erik could not describe how he knew—only that he _did_ , and he could not have dozed through it. A light rustle filled the air as he slid the thin blanket off his long form, maneuvering to the side of the bed and slipping his feet flat onto the ground. He padded across the small room with practiced ease, only a soft shuffling betraying his presence within the darkened room, then he was silently closing his door behind him, ensuring that Khan would not have been woken by the sound.

The house was still in the darkness, a hint of moonlight seeping through the closed window. The wooden table he and Khan used to dine was empty, the dishes and plates put away by Erik's neat hand. The other inhabitant of the home was sleeping soundly; Erik could hear his snores through the thin door beside his room, a validation of how weary the man must be to face agitation and anxiety everyday.

With noiseless steps, the spy moved towards the back door of the home, avoiding the loose floorboards, the creaking steps. He pushed the door open without making a sound, slipping through the small gap before shutting it behind him. The roof of the home casted looming shadows and he clung to them skillfully, blending easily into the darkness. There could be no indication that anyone in the village was awake.

Narrowed golden eyes scanned the premises carefully, noting the towering trees circling the area, the isolated land of homes and people. The once sheltering nature seemed akin to a cage, now.

Nothing was out of place.

There were no clucking chickens littering front porches, no lazy cows tied to the fences. Clothes that had been hung the previous evening were obediently swinging from their lines, undisturbed by the breezy wind. Every single light in the village was off, shrouding the area in complete darkness. Even the moon was sleeping, hidden behind dark clouds.

Everything was in its exact place, and it felt uncannily, alarmingly wrong.

Erik silently reached for the dagger strapped to his waist that he had stolen from one of the soldiers, caressed the handle delicately. With careful steps, he inched forwards towards the village square, binding himself to the shadows of the abandoned home he and Khan occupied. Keen ears listened for the hint of a rustle, the slightest indication of a cough.

Then, without warning, sudden light filled the darkness, bright and blazing.

A home had caught fire.

There was no time to react, no time to register what was happening—he could only stagger backwards in shock, a useless hand still gripping onto the dagger tightly. The flames spread quickly, leading him to believe that the house must have been doused in gasoline for the wood to ignite as quickly as it had. Golden eyes gleamed in the firelight, vaguely registering the sight of confused villagers rising at the notice of commotion, poking their heads out of windows, still hazy and unfocused from sleep.

Almost immediately, another home seemingly set itself alight, followed by another, then another. The village was a beacon of flames, spitting ember licking the vestiges of broken homes. The roaring flames drowned screams as wooden planks snapped and cracked, melted away by the blazing heat.

Panicked villagers ran out of their homes, hair askew and still in their nightclothes, crying out at the sight of their homes being destroyed. Mothers screamed for their children, children cried for their parents. Soldiers caught unawares stumbled out of their homes in their undergarments, wide-eyed and struck dumb. There were no weapons upon their forms, nothing that could serve to aid the quenching of flames eating up the village. It was a scene of complete, devastating chaos.

Erik started at the sound of a hoarse shout behind him. He whipped around to see Khan exiting their abandoned house, still temporarily untouched by the flames. The man looked around in a panic before catching his gaze and rushing towards him with hurried steps.

"Erik—what's happening?" he asked frantically, staring at the scene before him with wide, disbelieving eyes. He was lost, caught unawares, clad in nothing but his undershirt and loose slacks.

And Erik, for once in his life, could not give him an answer.

The assassin snapped his gaze back around, staring at the Afghan soldiers as they began to move towards the women and children, gathering them by a secluded area and shouting for calm. Their orders were in vain; Erik could still see some mothers sobbing for their children, men running from the flames.

A bloodcurdling screech filled the air, terrifying and hysterical. The two men's gazes snapped to the sight of a man rushing out of one of the blazing homes, his clothes set alight. He screamed as flames licked his exposed skin, hungry to devour him in fire and blood. It was a ghastly sight—mothers pulled their crying children to their chests, shielding their gazes from the horrific exposure.

And then, a single shot filled the air, striking the burning man down in a swift strike. He fell instantly, quiet and still upon the ground. The observers were struck dumb with shock, sudden silence replacing the screams of fright.

Erik immediately scanned the men for a hint of guns on their forms, the glimpse of a revolver or pistol, but only registered the sight of scared young men with their arms held out behind them, frozen in their attempts to protect the villagers at the sight of their fallen comrade. Every single one of the men were outdoors, now; he caught the eye of Jalil standing with the other colonels, unable to revel in the man's speechlessness from the look of unguarded, open shock upon the man's face.

The mujahideen had not shot at the man. And if it had not been the mujahideen…

He whipped around, scouring the area for the hint of uniformed men within the vicinity. He knew their ways, knew their tactics—knew that Vetrov would be likely to use the mujahideen's ploy against them should he be desperate enough. He remembered the days of waking in the Soviet camp only to find dead soldiers littering the borders, the bodies serving as a warning and a threat. Remembered the days of being caught off guard by the mujahideen, unaware that they slinked through the night, raiding their weapons and killing their men.

And yet Erik would never have suspected that the Soviet General would attack a defenseless village.

Golden eyes scoured the land, squinting at darkened spaces between trees, striving to catch a glimpse of pale men. They were surprisingly skilled at remaining hidden; he could not notice anything out of the ordinary. It was almost as if the houses had lit themselves on fire, as if the man had shot himself dead.

And then they appeared.

Silently, as if out of the darkness, men started to make themselves known. They crept forwards from the forests, eyes gleaming dangerously in the night. Merciless, they moved towards the group of young soldiers standing apart, the intention of killing in their eyes. They wore no uniforms, but Erik could easily recognize them from his vantage point.

The Soviets had found them at last.

A strange feeling overtook him at the sight of his men advancing towards the mujahideen. They were remarkably familiar: he could remember the colonel standing towards the side, beckoning the soldiers forwards; he remembered the man with the grey beard who favoured his revolver. All around, Soviets started to advance, stalking menacingly towards terrified villagers, unguarded soldiers.

Erik felt like an outsider watching the scene, curiously hesitant. It was almost as if his loyalties were being torn—sliding between the army that had forcibly enlisted him and the army that had forcibly captured him. He stood still, staring as the villagers started to panic, the soldiers started to form a protective barrier. Gradually, Soviets began to roughly seize at the Afghan soldiers. A scream rang through the air as one of the soldiers was violently wrenched away by a Soviet, leaving the child he was shielding from harm bare to danger. The fire blazed on, wood cracking and spitting as pieces of houses fell, hitting the mujahideen and villagers alike—some fatally. There was no side to choose, nowhere to remain apart from where he currently stood.

A faint shout of, "Rookheeya! Reza!" snapped Erik to attention.

At once he remembered his companion, and he swiftly turned to look back at the house he shared with the man, one of the last to be set alight. Khan was being held back by some of the Soviet men in front of the crumbling house, arms spread from his torso in an uncannily similar way Erik had been held by his guards. Strangely, the sight of the man being constrained as he once had sat uncomfortably within him. The Afghan's forehead was creased with anxiety, a deep line marring his brow as he frantically sought to pull his arms away from the men's tight grip. His head whipped around in a rush of panic, distraughtly surveying the camp for any hint of his wife and child, his hoarse shouts of their names drowned out by the roaring fire, the resounding chaos.

In the midst of pandemonium, hazel eyes caught the sight of gold, gleaming and shining in the firelight, a fierce master of flames. A pleading, helpless look caught itself in Khan's gaze, one that Erik knew too well.

He had seen it on himself the—fortunate—few minutes he had worried that Christine was being held against her will by the government.

Khan was looking for his wife and child—the wife and child who inhabited the house opposite theirs, the house that was currently collapsing in a burning heap. In one swift movement, Erik immediately turned and rushed towards the building, ignoring the cries of the others in distress, focusing on reaching Khan's family. Others shouted for help but he ignored them, intent on—no, _needing_ to ensure that the woman and child were all right.

Khan's wife was standing by the back door of the house when Erik approached, coughing and struggling to breathe. Her grey eyes were streaked with tears, her chest heaving with deep, gasping breaths from the clouded, smoky air. Her voice was rough with tears and gas, hoarse from calling for help as her house burned behind her.

Her son was nowhere in sight.

With vigorous intent, Erik rushed to her and grabbed her arms. "Rookheeya!" he said loudly over her frantic screaming. He shook her forcefully, snapping her out of her yelling to fix her gaze on him. She stared at him with a wide, fearful gaze, her mouth hanging open diffidently.

"Your son," he shouted, velvet voice booming over the roaring flames. He searched her gaze purposefully, gravely. "Your son! Where is he?"

"Please," she begged, gesturing inside the burning house, "he's inside—I don't know where he is, I can't hear him—"

Erik looked towards the burning house, wooden beams falling and cracking as the flames ate at its framework. To go inside would surely be suicide—he wondered if it was sensible to even look for the boy; surely he would already be dead by now.

And yet he still felt the screaming pull to do the opposite.

"Stay here," he ordered, and, mind made up, he freed his grip on her arms and in a single movement, strode into the raging fire.

The house was a maze of glowing ember and raging light. All he saw as he ventured onwards was the glow of red and orange and yellow, licking at the remains of chairs and tables. The ceiling was caving in; he had to duck to move forwards and more often than not his boots caught over the fallen remains of walls and floorboards and roof.

Sharp eyes scanned the residue of the home, venturing over the burning metal of the sink, the flames eating at the worn-out sofa in the middle of the room. The layout of the house was similar to the one he shared with Khan; he could discern two doors at the other end of the home, opposite the back door—he assumed they led to the two inhabitants' bedrooms.

The child— _Reza_ , he reminded himself—was nowhere in sight in the sparse area. No, there was nothing here apart from the kettle screeching, a dissonant shriek over the roaring flames. Everything else was melting, cracking, breaking over the hungry blaze of fire. Which could only mean…

Golden eyes drifted towards the twin doors at the end of the area. They were still intact, still standing, undamaged by the destruction of the rest of the home. He could only hope that the rooms they led to remained untouched by the fire, as well.

He lifted his sleeve to his nose, careful to ensure that he would not choke on the smoke. He would be no use to Reza if he were to collapse due to suffocation.

And with a deep inhale of bitter smoke, Erik marched across the room towards the doors.

The first door he tried almost collapsed under his shove, overheated by the hotness of the raging fire. He jerked backwards as it fell. Half of it gave to his weight; it stood to his shoulders, now, and he could only just peer in, noticing that fallen ceiling blocked the door, rendering him unable to push it open fully.

"Reza!" he called, looking around the room. Squinting, Erik searched the remains quickly, striving to catch a glimpse of a child, of a raised arm. Golden eyes could not detect any movement; nothing apart from the roar of flames licking at every surface in the room.

It was clear that he would not be able to access the room, and he could not detect the child anywhere. With a painful grimace, Erik ripped himself away from the door and tried the other one.

This door gave under his weight, swinging forwards at his shove. Erik could not even exhale in relief—no, he was intent on finding the child, and he surged forwards, ignoring the heat of the fire in his determination.

"Reza!" he called once more, brow furrowed intensely as he surveyed the cracking wood of the floor, the remains of what used to be a bed. There was only fire, now—fire, and—

There, in the corner of the room, curled into a delicate, frail ball, was the figure of a boy. His hair was smeared with soot, his face blackened from the smoke. He lifted his head at the sound of his name, eyes wide and streaked with tears.

Hazel eyes stared at gold, piercing and honest, so uncannily similar to Khan's. Erik lifted a hand, held it out to the boy.

"Come," he urged, fighting the impulse to sigh in relief. The fire was still raging on around them, wild and devouring. "Reza—come with me," he ordered the young boy. "This room will not hold us for much longer."

The boy frowned worriedly, looking around. It seemed as if he were frozen to the spot, curled into a ball, unable to move.

 _He's frightened_ , Erik realized. The boy was trapped in a burning building, crying for help and startled by this sudden change of events. Of _course_ he was afraid.

But they could not afford to be frightened now.

Mind made up, Erik took two swift strides towards the boy and pulled him to his feet none too gently, grabbing him under the arms. "Quickly, Reza," he said forcefully, shaking him to attention. The boy shook his head frantically, hitched sobs escaping his throat. His lip wobbled fiercely as he looked around the burning room.

Erik bit back a swore, knowing it would only scare the child. He grabbed Reza's shoulders, leaned down to better look at the boy. "Reza—Reza, _focus_ ," he shouted, startling the boy to attention. Wide hazel eyes fixed on his, large and fearful, completely vulnerable to attack and danger.

And despite the urgent situation, Erik found himself wanting to comfort the child. "Your mother is outside, Reza," he said with a slightly softer tone, hoping to move Reza's shocked mind. "She's waiting for you."

His words seemed to have worked; Reza's eyes cleared with recognition, latching onto his, a resolved, determined look replacing his frightened one. Erik seized the boy's hand in his and this time, there was no resistance from the latter. Without another word, he immediately led them out of the room and rushed towards the back door, avoiding the upturned floorboards and fallen ceiling fragments. The house was falling apart around them, but he was somewhat relieved to feel Reza's small hand in his, firm and solid within his grasp as he led them out of the burning building.

Rookheeya cried out when they emerged from the collapsing home, hands pressed to her mouth and grey eyes streaked with tears. With a firm tug, Erik propelled the boy forwards and away from the fire, forcefully slamming the door shut behind them to act as a temporary barrier to the flames. Before Rookheeya could sob in relief, he grabbed both mother and child and quickly led them away from the building—it would only harm them to linger by the fire. It was only when they were a safe distance away that Rookheeya found the opportunity to surge forwards, catching her son in her arms.

"Reza, Reza," she sobbed, falling to her knees and holding Reza close to her, cradling his head to the crook of her shoulder. The child was trembling; he buried his face in her neck, little hands clutching at her arms, his body shaking with shock.

Erik moved towards the side, hand seeking a tree for support. His breaths came in deep, gasping inhales, greedily seeking in air that did not reek with smoke. His entire body was beaded with sweat, heated from the scorching fire, soaking him from head to toe with perspiration.

The urgency of the demanding situation eventually melted away as his heartbeat began to steady, slowing from the thunderous pace it had been at before. Everything seemed calmer, steadier almost. The sound of roaring fire seemed to fade; there was only the fact that he was here, he was _alive_ , and he was fine.

Erik turned to look at the mother and son, opening his mouth to ask of their current condition, but stopped short at the sight of the two. He could see the relief in Rookheeya's eyes, knowing that her son was safe, that he was in her arms. Her black mass of hair was escaping from the tie holding it back, loose strands framing her dirtied face, clinging to her sweaty skin. And then there was the boy—small and entirely dependent on his mother, a child helpless in the world. His wayward locks were sullied with soot, but Erik could see that he could not care less—not when he had his mother to take care of him once again.

A deep, unsettling feeling rested within Erik's chest. Chaos surged around them, violent and loud. Fire ate at the buildings of the village. Mujahideen soldiers threw themselves at the Soviets, intent on fighting as well as they could without their weapons. Children screamed for their parents to find them. Women were being accosted by the Soviets, crying out as they were pushed around, as they were manhandled.

Golden eyes surveyed the area, looking for any sign of the father of the little family beside him. He observed the collapsing houses, the smoke rising up to the heavens. The soldiers had somehow struck themselves into focus, the lieutenants and sergeants barking hasty orders as the men fought to gain control of the situation, retrieving the last of their weapons that could be salvaged from the fire. The Soviets were ruthless, but the mujahideen were fierce in their fight back, intent on protecting the villagers from harm.

It was a bloody battlefield: bodies were falling, people were burning and shouting and screaming, and Khan was nowhere in sight.

And somehow, Erik found that he could not allow the man's family to be exposed to such violence.

He turned towards the mother and child, mouth set in a grim line. They were still clutching at each other, Rookheeya smoothening a soothing hand over Reza's wet brow. He was regretful to break their sweet reunion, but the threat of danger to a woman and child unprotected was too great. "Rookheeya," he said sternly, loudly, intent on catching their attention.

The woman lifted her head from her child's to look at him, grey eyes wide and shining. Her hair was disheveled, black streaks falling over her face. Her skin was smudged and dirtied, her lips pale and dry.

He held out a hand to her, mind made up. "Come with me," he ordered, looking around to ensure they were not being watched amidst the madness. "We need to leave, and we need to leave _now_."

"Leave?" she questioned doubtfully, fingers tightening in her child's hair, still burying his face protectively against her shoulder. "Where?"

Erik huffed impatiently. The urgency of the situation had rushed back to him, demanding and pressing. Could she not see that she was in danger? "Somewhere—anywhere," he said testily. "Anywhere is safer than here."

She regarded him guardedly, and he fought the urge to yell at her. "I do not know you, sir—"

"You know I've been living with your husband, and that I just saved your child!" Erik hissed, golden eyes flashing. She blinked, but did not flinch, though he saw her tighten her grip around Reza protectively.

He exhaled, annoyed. He did not want to frighten her into submission, but they were dangerously vulnerable out in the open. They did not have _time_ to be distrusting—could she not see that he wanted to _help_ her?

"If you stay, they will come for you," he said in a low voice, gesturing in the general direction of the Soviets roughly handling the women, violent and lecherous in their actions.

Rookheeya glanced towards where he had motioned, and it was with an unpleasant triumph that he saw her pale face whiten a little more. It was something he could work with—fear could scare any person into action.

"They will separate you from your child and husband," he continued seriously, hoping she would be more willing to come with him if he were to shed light on the consequences should she decide to remain unprotected. "I will take you into the forest—give you some place to hide."

"How do I know you are not with them?" Rookheeya asked, eyes narrowed. "How will I know if you—"

"You don't," Erik said shortly. He let out a sharp huff, beyond irritated by now. Had he not only ventured into her burning house to rescue her boy? Was that not proof enough that he was not with the Soviets on this sickening attack?

"We don't have time for this, Rookheeya," he said sharply. "We need to go _now_."

The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Erik had already grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. He ignored her objections as he looked around, alert for any sign of soldiers coming their way; they could not risk being seen. Dragging an affronted woman and frightened child with him, he moved towards the opening of the forest, avoiding the frontal areas of the village, ensuring that they remained in the shadows—that they were undetected, unseen.

Time seemed to blur around them as they escaped the village. Erik could hardly remember leading them forwards through the forest, surging past towering trees and darkening paths, high on adrenaline and the objective to _get them out_. Gradually, the sounds of cries and panic melted into the distance, the brightness of the lit village dimming. There was only the three of them in the forest, rushing away from the chaos, ensuring that they remained as far from the scene as possible.

It was only when he could only faintly hear the shouts and screams from the village that Erik let go of Rookheeya's hand. The woman was panting beside him, holding onto her son's hand tightly, forehead streaked with sweat and grime. Around them, the night was silent and still—what it would have been if the Soviets had not come.

He gestured around to the trees with a vague hand. "Rest," he commanded, voice cracking from the effect of smoke in his lungs. Blood pounded in his ears, heart racing in his chest, thoughts flooding through his mind, loud and insistent. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

It was unexpected and entirely spontaneous of him to do such a thing—to whisk a woman and her child away from danger. He could not understand why it was necessary to protect the two; they were not his kin, nor were they supposed to be under his safeguarding. He was not entitled to keep them from harm.

And yet he could not deny the strange feeling that had overtaken him—an unpleasant, nauseating sensation that threatened to overcome him at the thought of leaving them behind.

He had only felt this once before, though it had been much stronger then. He remembered when he had thought his beloved was being held against her will by the Soviet government upon hearing her voice speaking into his telephone. The thought of his Christine handled by the scum of the Red Army made him bristle with rage.

Perhaps it was that feeling that compelled him to ensure that Khan's loved ones were not subjected to the same shame, the same violence. The man had been kind to him—Erik could admit that he was a valuable companion in this horror of war. He was the one person whom had tended to him when he had no reason to.

Erik opened his eyes. He was intent on settling against a tree and waiting out the chaos, but was stopped by a tender scene in front of him. Mother and child lay against a bark, the mother cradling her son lovingly to her chest, murmuring sweet reassurances in his ear as she stroked his hair soothingly. The boy was nestled comfortably against his mother, content on holding onto the sleeve of her _kurta_. They were quiet, calm—safe.

Somehow, he could almost imagine his Christine in a similar position. Not against a tree—but in their home, perhaps curled up in his favourite armchair, dainty legs tucked underneath her. The air would be still around them, the city quiet and soothingly peaceful, and she would be sitting with a black-haired boy resting on her lap. A boy with curly locks and startling golden eyes, drifting off to sleep at the sound of his mother's lullaby…

The thought filled him with such sweet agony.

He and Christine had never spoken about children, agreeing that they were not ready for such a responsibility. Christine's career was thriving, bringing her to new heights, and Erik was still enrolled within the government. They were both busy with their careers—too busy to find time to raise a child together.

And yet, there was always a lingering thought hanging between them, reminding them of the possibilities of creating such a miracle. He felt it when they passed by families on the streets of Moscow, when he saw how well Christine handled the children of theatregoers who would occasionally and excitedly greet her after a show. She was gentle, patient, always listening to their every word, a beautiful, radiant smile upon her face. And then she would look up to catch him gazing at her, cobalt eyes wide and shining with mirth.

He had known then that Christine would be a wonderful mother. And strangely, Erik found himself somehow wanting to raise a child with her someday when they were both ready.

Perhaps they should have spoken about it, could have brought their potential child to life by discussing him or her. They could have considered baby names together, talked about moving into a larger home—he didn't even know if she would have wanted a son or a daughter.

 _A son or daughter with Christine_. It was such a perfect image in his mind. They could have been happy, he knew. If she had found herself with his child, he would have done everything in his power to resign from the government. He would have taken her to the depths of Scandinavia if they grew violent, would hide her away from the danger they threatened. They could have been happy, he knew.

Erik wrenched his gaze away, shaking his head. He could not afford to think of possibilities now—not when he had two innocents under his care. "We will stay for the night," he said roughly, breaking the peaceful silence that had settled upon them. He did not look to see Rookheeya blink her eyes open, startled, did not see the frown that crossed Reza's forehead as he snuggled into his mother's arms.

Without waiting for an answer, Erik strode towards a lone tree, separate from the others, and sunk down against it. It was almost as if the excitement of the day's events were wearing upon him; he suddenly felt exhausted, bones heavy and weary. The village was far behind them, and they were safely hidden amongst the trees. The Soviets would not find them here.

Leaning against the bark, Erik closed his eyes and drifted off into a restless sleep.

* * *

The village was devastated.

The unexpected battle had turned in the mujahideen's favour after hours of taxing fighting, struggling to regain the upper hand against the Soviets. As dawn melted into day, the men found their confidence in the form of guns, hidden away in the grounds, loaded and ready for use. The Soviets were greater in number, but the mujahideen were cunning. They eventually chased the Red Army away with their quick shots and passionate yells of war, vowing to ensure they would never be caught off guard again.

And yet victory felt empty. There was no cause for celebration, not when so many lives were lost, when the houses were burnt down and destroyed, when the village was nothing but piles of ash and fragments of bullets littering the ground. Men, women and children alike had died—from the fire, from the gunshots, from the stab of a knife. A pile of bodies lay by the side of what remained of the village, silent and blackened from the flames, a constant reminder of casualties during a war.

The group of remaining soldiers was gathered in the village square, or what was left of it—it was nothing but a land of empty space now. The villagers had immediately left their former home after the battle, wanting nothing more than to leave behind the tragedy of the day. The men were small in number, weary and exhausted from the events of the day, brought down by the losses to their ranks, the losses that lay by the side of dead villagers. It had been pointless, unnecessary—a waste of life.

No; there was no cause to celebrate their victory.

The men were still and silent, staring lifelessly into the distance. There was no sound, no word from anyone—just the quiet of the day. The warmth of sunlight upon their skin seemed a curse instead of a blessing, a reminder that they were _alive_ , that they were _living_ , and that their comrades were not.

Their General paced in front of their eyes, noticeably agitated and barely containing his anger, rough and unpracticed as he strode about. An occasional glance was thrown his way, most of the time bitter and hateful; after all, if it was not for him, many of these lives could have been saved.

A lone man sat by himself towards the side of the group, perched upon a stumped tree. Unlike the other soldiers who stared ahead motionlessly, remembering their fallen comrades and friends, he was actively moving, with fingers wrung together, feet tapping the ground anxiously. Hazel eyes flickered around the camp, alert to any movement, any hint of life within the village— _anything_ that could tell him where his missing wife and son were, why he could not find them anywhere.

They must have stayed in their positions for over an hour when the faintest rustle of movement from the trees caught their attention.

One by one, the men looked up in surprise at the sight of two emerging from the forest. The first was a woman, grey eyes wide and distraught as she took in the sight of her destroyed village, black hair normally hidden behind a _hijab_ loose and tangled about her face. She stepped forwards, her hand closed around a smaller one—the hand of a tousled-haired boy who hid behind her, clinging to her arm as he looked around the remains of his home. He must have tightened his grip on her hand, for she immediately softened her gaze upon looking down at her child, hoping to soothe him with a gentle murmur of comfort.

Immediately, the man stood and rushed forwards, striding intently towards the little family. Relief was evident on his features; hazel eyes were tearful, mouth parted with disbelief and reassurance. "Rookheeya! Reza!" he called hurriedly. The sound interrupted the long stream of silence that had lasted for hours, but he couldn't bring himself to care—not when his wife and child were safe for some godforsaken reason, had managed to escape and avoid the violence.

Rookheeya sobbed into his shoulder when he caught them in his arms, holding them tightly against his body. His heart thudded wildly within his chest, a flurry of questions flooding his mind—how did they escape? Where had they been? Did they encounter any danger of any kind?—but in the midst of it all was blatant, wholehearted relief. It was an ease upon his agitated burden of wondering where they had been, wondering if they had been taken in by the Soviets.

"Thank god you're safe," he breathed into her hair. Reza buried his face into his father's chest, clutching fistfuls of his shirt in little hands. It was the most comforting thing he had ever felt in his life. "But Rookheeya," he pulled back to regard his wife, "where were you? I was looking everywhere for you, I'm so sorry I could not get to you—"

"It was him—the Soviet," she said breathlessly, and he could do nothing but stare at her. "The man I would cook dinner for every night."

"Erik?" he said with dumb shock.

And, as if he had been summoned by the sound of his name, the pale man emerged from the shadows of the trees. His white face was dirtied and muddy, his clothes filthy and blackened with soot and grime. Golden eyes met hazel, deep and piercing, unreadable in his intentions.

He could do nothing but stare at the man as he held his wife and child to him—this man, their _captive_ whom had protected his family.

He could barely comprehend what was happening before an enraged bellow of, _"Phantom!"_ boomed through the silent enclosure. The Soviet bristled as two bulky men approached and roughly seized his arms, the two men whom had handled him for the entirety of his capture. He struggled against the hold, golden eyes flashing with anger, a frustrated yet melodic growl escaping his lips.

The father turned to catch a glimpse of Jalil, noting his wild demeanour, the obvious lack of composure in his feral gaze. He was furious, frenzied, _fuming_ with blackened rage. It seemed as if the sleeves of his tattered _kurta_ could have torn from the tension trembling within his arms.

Jalil was livid, and would no doubt take his anger out on the Soviet man in their captivity.

Looking back at that moment, Nadir wished he had acted upon the scene. He could have seized Erik and run, escaped with his wife and child into the maze of the woods where the mujahideen could not find them. He could have protested against the rough handling of the man—the man he could perhaps consider himself fond of, perhaps even a friend.

But, still shocked by the fact that Erik had protected his family— _two people the man had no obligation over_ —he could only stand and watch as the muscled guards dragged a struggling Erik away from the open space, could only observe with dread as Jalil furiously followed, even as a deep, unsettling feeling tugged at his chest at the sight of his companion being whisked away.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

In the midst of a still home, before the icy cold touch of a sink, a broken man stared into the mirror directly in front of his gaze. Strips of bandages were hastily thrown, hanging off the side of the bathroom counter, abandoned and forgotten. Golden eyes traced the ruins of a bare face, followed the perfect lines and angles of the left side; the straight nose, the untainted skin, the unmarred flesh.

And then, there was the other side: the caved in flesh of where a nose should have been, the deranged scars shaped as an elegant eyebrow, the chunks of missing flesh. Skin melted and chucked away by acid and knife, barely holding a face together.

It was horrific, a parody of human features. He would need to look upon this monstrous face for the rest of his life.

A sudden surge of anger filed within him, red-hot and livid. He had not deserved this, had not needed this to happen to him. This face was forced upon him, a far cry from the perfect side he had once dismissed as unattractive, forever reminding him of the mark of the mujahideen. It was unheard of, to disfigure a face so badly—in fact, it was _unnecessary_.

With an unhinged yell, he brought his fist up to the mirror, striking it with all his might. Again and again he hit it, uncaring of the shards of glass pressing themselves into the skin of his knuckles, cutting deep, drawing blood. There was only this hatred, this desire to ensure he could never see this face again, could never know what he had experienced at the hands of a mad, unbalanced man.

When he could hit no more, he simply stood still, panting with excessive energy, heart thudding wildly with anger and adrenaline. His fury was slowly melting away, an unsettling surge of emotion bottling within his chest, deep and unfamiliar and painful.

He could taste the hint of the tear that had rolled down his cheek.

* * *

 **A/N:** Shit goes down right about... now.


	17. Break My Pride

**A/N:** It feels like its been a lifetime! Sorry for the long wait, but university is insane! Between attending classes and having a social life, its hard to find time to write.

But well, this is it, guys. I really hope that this entire scene was worth the wait. Please let me know if there's anything I can improve on it or add to the intensity. Any criticisms at all—I welcome them! (But at the same time, please be... somewhat?... nice about them.) Thanks to Masked Man 2 for their input & beta reading!

 **WARNING:** Graphic violence. If you're queasy or uncomfortable, I suggest you skip the chapter.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Dust Bowl Dance, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _Seal my heart and break my pride,_

 _I've nowhere to stand and now nowhere to hide._

* * *

 _ **November 1980**_

It was scorching, once more.

Erik was dragged into the tent with his arms held away from his chest, manhandled by the two guards who were associated with his 'care'. A loud snarl escaped his lips as they wrenched him forwards, causing him to stumble over his footing. The air around him was hot and humid, intensified by the closed quarters of the stuffy tent.

A surge of red hot anger swelled within him at the rough handling of his person, and he fixed a glare at the General who strode in behind them. "Jalil, I knew nothing of this!" he immediately shouted at Jalil, who's eyes blackened with fury. The man was almost shaking in his rage, his bulky arms tensed by his sides as he marched towards Erik, held in place by the guards. With a single stroke, he delivered a shocking blow to Erik's ribs, knocking the air out of the Soviet's lungs.

 _"_ _Lies!"_ he screamed, before Erik felt a fist collide with his ribs again. It shook through him, crushing his bones with the ferocity of the punch, harder than Jalil had ever hit before. Erik coughed, feeling his insides twist at the blow, but was determined not to allow his pain to show as the General rallied on. "I _knew_ you were sending information to your slimy communists—"

Despite the pain, he let out a harsh, exasperated sigh. Good god—did this man not _understand_ that it was simply _not possible_ for him to have contacted the Soviets? The words spilled from his lips in a miffed, irritated tone. "How could I have _possibly_ sent out information to them? You were watching me this entire time!"

"—I shouldn't have believed a _word_ from you!" Jalil roared, refusing to listen. He sent another powerful punch to Erik's gut, and this time the Soviet could not hold back his grunt of pain. A sickening crunch echoed through the air, one that left Erik's ears ringing and blood pulsing. A hot, searing white silence filled his senses, and for a moment the only thing he could discern was the pain of breathing, the pain of moving; the _pain_.

Blinking dazedly, Erik struggled to regain control of his senses. Deep, shuddering breaths filtered through his lungs, his chest agonisingly heaving. He took in a large breath, resulting in a sharp stab in his torso. Realisation hit him, then: his ribs were broken.

Jalil had never broken his body parts before. There had been blows and slashes of a knife, but he had always ensured that Erik would have been able to stand by the next day.

Now, he was clearly shaking with anger, holding Erik responsible for a crime he had not committed. This time, he could be ruthless.

And suddenly, Erik found himself fearful of Jalil's next actions against him.

"Jalil," he said loudly, melding his voice into the hypnotic quality that had astounded others so many times before. Rough yet smooth, velvet across a satin bedspread, inviting and captivating. They had managed to make pleading men succumb to his death grip, to make even the hardest of humanity bend to his will. Speaking was difficult with his laboured breaths, but he could not betray his pain to the man. No, now he needed to focus on getting Jalil to _listen_ to him, to convince him that what he was saying was true—which, essentially, it was.

"Khan watched me the entire time," he said clearly, golden eyes boring into black. "I was with the villagers of this camp _the entire time_. Even if I were to keep to myself, there were no tools of communication I could use—"

"But you _knew!"_ Jalil shrieked, the spell of Erik's voice broken. "You _knew_ that they were coming, and you hid away when they attacked! You ran from the danger to protect yourself!"

"I heard—"

"No, you _knew!"_

Another blow, and another, and another, each time delivered with rough carelessness, as if the man no longer cared if his captive was to live or die. Jalil was uncontrollable in his anger. It was a struggle to remain in focus, to ensure that he did not succumb to the sweet promise of painless darkness, but Erik forced himself to stay awake and focused. He gritted his teeth against the pain, though he could not have prevented the grunts and gasps that escaped his lips as each punch was delivered. His torso was throbbing, aching, his ribs sore and in agony. Any doubts that his ribs were intact disappeared; they were surely broken now. He could tell by how difficult breathing became, how dizzyingly numb his mind had become.

Somewhere through his muffled mind, Erik had thought that Jalil might have other questions for him. Surely, there was more to his interrogations than the constant, _"Admit it_ — _you led them to us!"_ he repeatedly screamed. If he were a weaker man, Erik knew he would have succumbed by now. Perhaps he would have lied, would have admitted to a crime he did not commit and beg for mercy. Still, his pain-filled brain refused to bow down to the mad man's wishes. He had done a great deal of crime, but he was being punished for one he did not commit. It was a ridiculous, frustrating sort of irony to behold.

It was when Jalil had realised that his ribs could not take anymore damage and moved onto snapping one of his fingers that Erik lost all sense of control.

"What the _fuck_ do you want me to say?" he yelled, golden eyes gleaming furiously. Sweat gathered at his forehead and the column of his throat, hair clinging to his face from the heat. The guards still held his arms, his torso bare to attack, shirt still miraculously covering his form even if it was wrinkled from the force of the beatings. His chest heaved with rasping, painful breaths. It was not immediately noticeable, but if one were to look closely at the fingers of his right hand, they would see the fourth bent at an unnatural angle, unsupported by bone. A mixture of anger and pain flooded through him, fast and hot and urgent. It clouded his mind, sent his senses throbbing. Jalil was being bloody _unreasonable,_ and—

"I want you to _admit_ to what you've done!" the General roared. "You exposed us—killed our men, our women and children—"

An immediate surge of defensive indignation rushed through Erik. Unable to think, unable to filter his words against the warning bells of treading carefully, he bellowed, "If you had not moved us to the village in the first place, they wouldn't have been vulnerable to an attack! It was _you_ —you and your mad rage, you letting your anger control you! Shifting the blame onto me doesn't lift the burden from your shoulders, unstable as they are—"

 _"Shut up!"_

The truth to Erik's words seemed to enrage Jalil even further, and the Soviet cut himself off with a grudging realisation that should he continue, he may drive the unbalanced General over the edge and threaten his own life along with it. Jalil now stood rigidly, shoulders tense with unbridled anger, almost shaking in his rage. Black eyes gleamed darkly with hidden malicious intent, and suddenly, Erik feared that he had driven him to the point of insanity.

But instead of lashing out like Erik had thought he would have done, the General stepped backwards into the shadows.

If not for the fact that he was used to the darkness, Erik would have started to panic. Instead, golden eyes fixed themselves upon the shape moving in the shade, following every step, every turn. He struggled to concentrate despite the throb in his ribs, now having dulled to a stinging ache; no less painful, but reduced enough to be hardly noticed. Every sense fought to focus on keeping his gaze on Jalil, on discovering what it was the General had planned for him. The tent was not overly large, so he was never out of sight, a silhouette sighted by keen golden eyes.

A particularly sharp inhale shifted his focus for a moment, a sudden stab tearing through his lungs and rendering him breathless. It was agonising, terrifying— _painful._ For a moment, he saw stars behind his eyes, could only discern blackness and silence. Everything was hazy and unfocused and he struggled to breathe, struggled not to shift too much, fearing he would tear at his broken ribs even more.

A gleam of silver caught his gaze and Erik blinked in spite of the pain, lifting his head. It was coming closer, approaching him, eerily beautiful in the shaded tent of trench and army green. Shining silver, curving into an elaborate twist, sharp at the edges—

A knife.

Erik felt his blood run cold. Jalil was stalking towards him now, a menacing gaze in his eyes, dark and glowing fiercely within the clouded room. Instinctively, he tensed against the tight hold of his captors. His mind screamed at him to resist, to fight back, but there was not much struggle he could put up without damaging his tender ribs further. Fighting back would render him crippled and unable to walk from the pain, but if he did nothing, he was making himself vulnerable to Jalil's attack—and perhaps the possibility of the knife ripping through his heart.

The thought made him struggle even more fiercely within his captors' grips, even as his insides screamed at him to stop moving. The pain seemed secondary to the threat of death. All he knew was that he could not allow Jalil take his life—not when he had Christine to return to, not when they had so much more of their life to live together.

"Jalil," he tried, surprised at how steady his voice came out despite the raging panic slowly gripping him from the inside. His gaze landed on the knife, sharp and gleaming, and he summoned his voice once more, channeling the soothing, powerful tone that almost always bent people to his whim. "Think about this, General. I have told you time and time again that I didn't betray your location—I was telling the truth. There is no reason for me to lie about this. My loyalties are not with the Soviet Union—they never have been. I work for the situation presented towards me, and did not desire to victimise the women and children of this village. Ask Khan—"

"Ah, but Khan is just like you, isn't he?" Jalil snarled. Erik watched him warily as he traced the knife with his finger, drawing out a bead of blood at his thumb. He stared at it intently—perhaps even lovingly. The sight tensed Erik's muscles even more.

"How so?" he asked cautiously.

Jalil snorted, throwing his arms outwards. The knife cut through the air in a sharp whip, silent and lethal. "His loyalties remain elsewhere, as well! It is no secret that he brings you food and clothing, that he tends to your wounds. He cannot be trusted." He paused, regarding Erik for a long moment, and the Soviet thought that perhaps he would come to his senses after all.

The knife pierced his skin in a sudden, single slash, cutting into the line of his stomach neatly. Shock gripped his bones, a pained hiss of surprise escaping his lips. Erik inhaled sharply at the feel of the lethal edge, a sharp sting of pain slicing through his skin. He could feel the ripped material of his shirt soaked by warm blood, dripping out of his exposed cut.

It was a wound of warning, he knew. The cut was not lethal, but was still deep, and Erik knew that if he was not treated soon, he would surely die of blood loss. His pain-filled mind could only hope that Jalil was aware of that, as well—and that if he was, he would be willing enough to let him live long enough to seek immediate attention for his wound.

Erik was so distracted by the shock and pain of the knife tear that he had not noticed the General slip out of the tent. It was a struggle to breathe, a struggle to block out the pain when it was screaming at him, demanding his full attention. It was loud and silent and throbbing and agonising, and Erik could only take measured, heaving breaths to steady his racing heart.

 _Breathe,_ he forced himself. He stared at the floor of the tent through hazy eyes, struggling to remain conscious. _Inhale, exhale. Concentrate. Breathe._

It was only when two boots stepped into view, a long pole held a little away from a trouser leg that Erik realised Jalil had left and returned.

His head felt thrice as heavy when he lifted it. Even now, he was determined to ensure that he did not show any outward sign of pain, even if his insides were scorching and tearing at his lungs. He gritted his teeth, biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he tasted blood.

"I will cut the truth out of you, Phantom," Jalil said softly as his fuzzy mind struggled to listen, hearing the words but not able to register them. "Soon enough, you will admit to what you've done."

The long, metal pole was gripped tightly in Jalil's hand, held carefully and concisely to ensure that no part of it touched his trousers. It gleamed red and angry.

"Maybe tomorrow you will cooperate, Phantom. But until then, you should rest—you've had a tiring day," his voice dropped mockingly, " _my friend."_

Erik did not realise the intent of the metal pole gripped in the General's hands before it was too late.

A distant howl echoed through his ears, and it took him a while to realise that the sound was being ripped from his own throat. But at this point, Erik did not care—not when everything was hot and painful, torturously savage, burning metal pressing into his open wound and sealing his skin shut from the damage the knife had inflicted. Everything was ringing and flaming and unbearable, and then there was only darkness.

* * *

It was stiflingly, unbearably warm in the room when he woke. His vision was groggy from his state of unconsciousness as he blinked golden eyes open, lids heavy with sleep. There were no muffled voices, no shuffle of feet crossing the room—only silence, still and sharp and ringing.

For a moment, Erik almost forgot where he was. There was nothing out of place apart from the humidity he had been a victim of for the past few months, the stuffiness of the tent. It was as if he was amongst the Soviet soldiers, sharing a tent once again.

He inhaled and instantly, fire flooded his lungs. It was sharp, this sting that came from a shift of movement, encompassing his entire chest. His breath hitched in pained shock, struggling to make sense of why his insides felt as if they were burning him alive, why he found it difficult to breathe. An instinctive hand lifted to clutch at his wheezing chest—but no, he couldn't move them, for they were bound above his head, stretched out and apart. He shook his wrists, feeling sharp rope cutting into his skin, and snapped his head up, directing his gaze towards the shackles that bound his hands apart. The shock of seeing his hands bound made him tense with immediate alertness, and with a strangled exhale he felt sand and tiny rock cutting into the bare skin of his feet, hanging loosely against the ground.

Swift realisation hit him them, quick and hard, that he was trapped, confined.

Vulnerable.

His body was upright, feet dragging against the ground, arms pulled apart and bounded by thick, tight rope. His ribs were broken, and a glance downwards at his bare torso revealed an angry red scar, dragging deep and gashing into his skin that was already littered with blue and purple welts.

The events of the day before flooded his mind. He remembered the fire that consumed the village, remembered whisking Khan's wife and son to a safer refuge against the Soviets who had finally found their camp. Waiting until the screams died away, long and harsh into the midst of day before emerging with Khan's family, unharmed and unhurt. Remembered the devastation of the village, the soldiers who sat despondently by what remained of the village square.

Then, Khan's relieved expression followed by Jalil's enraged roar. The grab of his arms as he struggled against the two guards, how they dragged him into a lone tent. Jalil's uncontrolled blows to his chest, cracking his ribs in unbridled anger. Feeling exasperated and furious beyond belief at being accused, then the sharp sting of a knife piercing his stomach, dragging a wound across his skin before the man shoved a metal rod against his screaming flesh.

Golden eyes traced the scar that marred his stomach. Cauterisation, he knew, was highly dangerous and extremely painful. Thrusting burning metal into his skin _did_ close the wound Jalil had made, yes, but the pain was... unbearable. It was used by soldiers as a last resort, when the seriousness of a wound would threaten life or death. He himself had never considered it, even in the most dire of circumstances.

It was a miracle that his body survived it.

Jalil did not hold any objection to causing Erik pain, he knew. Evidence of this was littered along his skin, burned into his aching bones. Yet, the fact that the General had ensured his survival meant that he must have come close to death yesterday. Indeed, if not for the harsh burn that sealed his skin, he would have surely withered away from the blood loss or an infection.

He would have been relieved that he was alive if not for the fact that he _knew_ Jalil. The man had wanted his blood after the attack—that much was obvious. He had been fire and rage. If he had allowed Erik to live, it would have been for a reason, and the injured man was not too eager to discover it.

"Ah, Phantom. I was wondering when you would finally wake."

Erik snapped his head up at the sound of Jalil's voice, golden eyes instantly settling upon dark, gleaming black. The General sat in a wooden chair directly opposite him, watching him as if he were a pig up for slaughter. It made Erik's skin bristle with rage and apprehension.

The sight of his glare made the General's lips curl up in a sneer. "You are quite the deep sleeper, my friend. I was tempted to wake you myself rather than wait."

"You cut away my shirt," Erik hissed through clenched teeth. For some reason, despite the dire circumstances he found himself in, it was the only thing that was nagging at his mind. He felt stripped, vulnerable, naked—and he did not like it.

Jalil waved a noncommittal hand. "It was getting in the way. Besides, you should be grateful for that; your wounds would never have closed if you had that rag over your shoulders."

A low growl escaped the Soviet's lips, and he glanced down at his chest once more, before doing a double take. Golden eyes took in the sight of his bare, bruised chest, scars and fresh wounds littering his purpling skin.

His locket was missing.

Immediately, he felt himself bristle with a rage he had never encountered before. "Where is it?" he demanded in a snarl.

Jalil raised an eyebrow. "Your shirt? We could hardly use tattered cloth, could we? I disposed of it."

"The _locket_ ," Erik spit out, barely containing his flaring temper.

A hint of a frown crossed Jalil's features, though his body never betrayed any hint of uncertainty. "You did not have a locket."

 _"I did_ _."_ Golden eyes flashed dangerously, glaring ferociously at his adversary. He would not allow his one keepsake, his one physical reminder of his wife be taken away from him. If the mad man had taken it, even laid a large, meaty _finger_ on it...

"It was under my shirt," he continued lowly, keeping his eyes trained on the General's. "I've never taken it off, and _now it's missing_. Hand it over. _Now_ ," he hissed.

"You did not have a locket on you, man," Jalil huffed, his irritation rising. His body lifted from the chair, bulky and meaty, all muscle and strength. Erik knew the man could easily crush him. But his body was more agile, more lean; he was quick and fast. He could easily take the man down, if his ribs did not scream with every breath he took.

Yet the pain was the last thing on his mind. Revolting images of Jalil holding his precious locket flooded his mind, of Jalil running his filthy fingers all over his molten gold, of his black eyes staring down at the photograph of his wife...

All Erik could see was red. At that moment, he could not have cared about his own limitations—he would have tackled the man where he stood and driven his fists and nails and fingers into his hard flesh, would have done everything to make Jalil scream.

To think that he had even _looked_ upon his wife, even if it was just an image of her, made his blood boil. The man was unworthy of witnessing such beauty, such grace.

"You lie," he hissed.

The humour melted out of Jalil, and he crossed his arms impatiently. The muscles on his arms were so tightly tensed it seemed as if his skin would burst. "Redirecting my attention will not get you anywhere, Phantom."

Golden eyes narrowed into slits. "Untie me, Jalil. Now."

A malevolent laugh echoed through the air, not at all rich, not at all full. It was short and forced out of a rough throat, raspy and strange. "Or you'll do what?" Jalil taunted. "Attack me? You won't be able to walk, much less put up much resistance—I've made sure of that. I doubt you'd be able to stand, as well... you should be thankful for your chains, my friend. You wouldn't be upright without them."

Erik let out a menacing growl, one that never failed to inspire fear within his enemies. It was a low, rich sound, rumbling from deep within his chest, heavy with the promise of death. For a moment, Jalil's soulless eyes did seem to flicker with something akin to fear, but he hardened once more before Erik could truly discern if the man had been taken aback or not.

Instead, he reached behind him. Erik was not surprised to see him brandish another knife—if he was honest, he was beginning to wonder if the man had any other methods of harming him; he himself could have come up with a few creative ideas of torture—but this one was smaller and thinner, a dagger that ended when it had only barely begun, a slight curve to its edge. It was unusual; he had rarely encountered a weapon of such a kind.

"You've been incredibly difficult with me, my friend," Jalil said pleasantly, making Erik bristle with annoyance. He was exasperated and tired, full of rage and a need to defend his love, even if she was not in any form of danger. He tugged at his binds rebelliously, determined not to give in.

He would _not_ die here. Whatever happened, he would escape from the camp. _Damn_ Jalil and his adversaries—Erik would skin them one by one. And then he would take his locket with him when he finally ventured back to Christine, and would leave his country to rot in _hell_.

With heavy steps Jalil stalked towards Erik, black eyes gleaming with unwanted promise. The knife gleamed maliciously in his hand, glinting even in the dim light of the tent. The sight of it infuriated Erik even more. It was preposterous that he was here, in this situation, bound and tied and at the complete mercy of a madman. He was the _Phantom_ , for Christ's sake! He was the most feared figure in all of Russia. He ended lives with a flick of his wrist, and here he was, _stripped and shackled_ , ribs broken and possessions stolen from him.

A strange, unsettling feeling coursed through his blood. He might have thought that at that moment, Erik felt as if he was being wronged.

"I was thinking," Jalil mused as he stopped in front of his captive, and brushed a contemplative finger below his shaggy beard. Erik pursed his lips at the smell of sweat and grime, the faint hint of blood. It was clear that he had not washed since the events of yesterday; the man _stunk_. The General lifted the knife to his vision, running an idle finger across its small blade. He spoke calmly, almost conversationally. "You don't have a proper way of remembering us. Nothing other than memories, and scars, of course—but anyone could drag a knife across your skin."

Erik glared at the man, unwilling to listen to his rambles. "What are you playing at?"

A slow grin spread across Jalil's face. "You," he declared triumphantly. "You and your body—you are my plaything! Skin so white and pale should be decorated, I think."

Erik stared incredulously at him. He had understood that the man had anger issues, had severe mood swings that alternated between gleeful and enraged. He had labeled Jalil as 'mad' many times before, but perhaps he had never truly believed his own words until now.

He found himself uttering the words Khan had emphasised throughout this course of war. "This is unnecessary."

Jalil snorted. "I doubt that," he scoffed, bringing the knife to Erik's skin. The edge of the blade lightly traced his open wound and he bit back a pained hiss, expression twisting in the process. "You still haven't admitted to the truth," Jalil intoned dangerously. "Until you do, this will continue."

Erik let out a sharp breath. "I _told_ you," he said through clenched teeth, "I didn't bring the Soviets here—"

"Yes, I know what you said," the General rolled his eyes. "I simply don't believe you." His hand lifted and the blade scratched Erik's flesh in the process, this time eliciting the sharp intake of breath from his lips as the cauterised wound once more started to tear. A drop of blood escaped the skin that had been forced together, cool metal merciless.

The knife left his skin and Erik let out a breath. His ribs screamed in agony at his sharp exhale but he paid it no heed, too drunk off anger and wary anticipation to notice. His captor started to move behind him, rendering him unable to see the man unless he was to twist his neck awkwardly to glance behind him. He did not try to attempt it, finding himself impatient at Jalil's antics and games. "For fuck's sakes, man—"

His curse was cut off by a shocked hiss that escaped his lips. The knife was pressing into the skin of his back, deep but not lethal, digging a minuscule hole into his flesh. Erik felt the familiar trickle of warm blood lacing the edges of the wound, knowing the streaks would follow down his back and catch in the loose slacks covering his lower half.

He tensed but did not struggle, knowing that if he did so, he would possibly wedge the knife firmer into his skin. His broken ribs throbbed angrily at the tension but Erik grit his teeth together, forcing himself to take even breaths. He would _not_ allow the pain to blind him and render him vulnerable. He would _not_.

Running off anger and offence, Erik didn't think about the words leaving his lips. "Another stream of slashes into my skin?" he snarled, jerking his head to rid of the unruly black hair that had fallen into his eyes. Stupidly, he taunted the man. "Your wounds are mindless, Jalil—where is your creativity? There is no purpose—no _art_ —to the scars on my body other than to signify violence. It's pathetic."

Silence stretched, and for a long moment Erik held his breath, cursing his clever tongue. Jalil would surely be further enraged, this time. Erik had done himself no favours other than to promise himself a multitude of fresh wounds he would fall asleep to.

But when Jalil's voice sounded from behind him, he was surprisingly calm. "True," he murmured, and Erik felt a deep frown cross his forehead, resisting the urge to tug at his binds once more. "No, Phantom—you're right. This _is_ quite dull."

The blade suddenly dragged down his back in a single movement, drawing a shocked gasp from Erik's lips. He felt the cool metal lift from his skin, exposing his new wound to the hot air.

"I can give you something to remember us by."

The next few minutes were spent trying desperately not to make a sound as Jalil dragged the blade through his skin. The sharp metal lifted and curved around the expanse of his back, making patterns and symbols like an artist would use a paintbrush on a canvas. It hurt, surely, but the feeling of the little knife tracing his skin was no match to the pain he had endured when Jalil had broken his ribs. It was bearable.

Still, Erik was able to dizzily discern that the damned man was _writing_ upon his back. He harshly bit his lip, trying to focus on the shape of the symbols, the different letters. Farsi. Jalil was writing in Farsi upon his skin.

It infuriated and shamed him, to think that the man had him so readily at his mercy. Still, Erik did not utter a sound, not even an affronted curse; he could not show Jalil that he was frazzled in any way, could not lose his calm. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined how Christine would react upon seeing his scarred flesh. Would she scream and clutch at her chest in horror? Or would she cry and gather him into her arms and press kisses to his skin?

He desperately hoped it would be the latter.

When Jalil seemed to have finished at the other end of his back, Erik felt the knife once more upon his skin, this time pressing into his open gashes. He could not contain the strangled gasp that escaped his lips as the man worked at his skin.

There was no other way of describing Jalil's work, other than to say that he was... _digging_.

He was digging into his flesh, and—Erik let out a shout— _peeling away the skin_. Almost as if one was carefully wedging a spatula beneath a flattened pancake, slowly prying its burnt edges from the heat of the pan. He shut his eyes tightly, another pained exhale sharply leaving his mouth. He felt the heat of blood, hot and burning upon his back, trickling down his spine. Jalil paid him no mind, but simply retraced the symbols he had cut onto Erik's skin, as if he was creating block letters of stencil.

 _He's making it permanent_ , Erik thought, letting out a discordant groan as Jalil pressed against a tender spot. The small marks would not imprint themselves upon his skin forever; they needed to be deeper, to be more prominent. To be obvious.

He fought back the urge to scream at the thought that Jalil was _marking_ him.

A reminder of the horrors of the war, etched upon his skin forever.

Soon enough, Jalil straightened behind him. Erik heard him let out a pleased sound behind him, his exhale satisfied. "Fantastic," he stated, sounding triumphant. Erik shut his eyes tightly, both blinded by the pain and the rage he felt within his body. If not for his broken ribs, he would have surely been shaking with barely suppressed anger by now.

As if on cue, the two guards that tended to him entered the tent, burly and sour-looking as always. Erik, for once, did not bother to return the look. His breaths came out in great pants, hitched and uneven. His back was covered in thick, sticky liquid, jets of red marking his skin. Sweat coloured his brow and throat, dripping down onto his already glistening chest.

"Ah," Jalil said, stepping out from behind him. The man's shoulders brushed his roughly as he moved in the direction of the guards, making Erik wince at how the movement nudged at his tender ribs. He could see his blood still on the blade gripped in Jalil's hand. "Just in time. I was simply teaching our _guest_ a much-needed lesson."

Erik lifted a heavy head to glare at the General. His grin widened.

Turning back to the guards, Jalil implored, "Is it ready?" His tone held no impatience, no resentment. There was only sick triumph. Erik suppressed the need to shut his eyes, overcome with humiliation.

One of them gave a gruff nod, and Erik at once registered the question the General had posed.

"Is _what_ ready?" he asked, intending to be rough but instead coming across as defeated.

The General turned to Erik, satisfied, and offered him a wolfish grin, one that caused the hairs on the back of the Soviet's neck to rise. He tilted his head in a fashionable gesture, one that was so very valued by Western Europe, and left the Soviet's question mysteriously hanging. "We will continue tomorrow, my friend," he said pleasantly, malicious intent dripping from his words. "Try and consider telling me what I want to hear."

He left the tent, the flaps swinging loudly behind him. Immediately, the two guards began to approach, their meaty hands swinging by their sides. Erik looked at them, feeling too drained to offer a sarcastic insult.

"Hello, again," he sighed wearily. As expected, they were rough upon unbinding him, but Erik was much too tired to care. The pain felt normal, now—it seemed an ordinary part of life. His arms fell to his sides as his ties loosened, heavy and limp from being restrained for so long. His broken finger twitched by his side, throbbing and swelling. They grabbed his shoulders and he grimaced uncomfortably, holding back the wince that threatened at the feel of his disturbed ribs. He did not speak as they forcibly paraded him out of the tent in full view of all the other soldiers, did not lift his head to see where they were going. He hazily instructed his feet to follow, feeling himself grow weaker at the hard sway of walking. His ribs were aching, the hot air hitting the throbbing wounds on his back, and he felt his vision grow blurry with the constant movement.

A sudden shove made him lose his balance and he stumbled forwards, taken by surprise. There was no time to look at his surroundings before he found himself enclosed, a door swinging in his face. And yet, it was not an ordinary door—it was wooden and stripped, gaps in between each line...

Bars.

Erik blinked in shock as he saw his captors move away, their broad backs slowly retreating from view. He glanced around his surroundings, taking in the confined space, the opening latch tied securely from the outside. There was nothing beneath him apart from the hard, solid ground.

He was in a cage.

* * *

Eventually, he found himself able to sleep. It was horrifyingly humiliating, being in the cage. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to convince himself of a possible escape. He was weak and sore, and his bones were broken, but he could not let himself wallow in self-pity. Soldiers passed by and he glared at them, daring them to spare him a sympathetic glance. He was stripped and shamed, but he would _not_ allow them to feel pity for him.

He could not.

The ground beneath him was hard and solid, and it was an uncomfortable sleep. He did not allow himself to drift off before the entire camp had, fiercely determined to never allow them to see a moment of weakness. Finding a position to lie in was difficult with his injuries, but somehow, he managed.

It felt like only moments later when he was being violently slapped awake.

Golden eyes snapped open, startled at the abrupt awakening. A harsh yelp escaped his throat as he felt his arms being yanked upwards, jostling him to his feet. His ribs screamed in pain as he was pulled forwards; he barely registered being led out of the cage, barely felt the sting of sunlight upon the tender wounds of his back. He registered the faint buzz of soldiers setting up the morning firewood in the background, After a while he realised that it was his guards that had returned for him, but could not protest for fear it would come out sounding pained.

Jalil was standing with his back to them in the stuffy tent when they entered, his head bowed as if examining something. A long table lay in front of him, akin to a stretcher; tall enough to lay a man upon it, hard enough to promise discomfort. The man's head snapped up at the sound of shuffling and harsh grunts; his captive was finally being brought to him. He turned to greet the Soviet with a broad grin on his face, his mouth stretched menacingly.

"Ah, Phantom!" he cried as if greeting an old friend. Erik couldn't give a reply; he was suddenly all too aware of the long table behind the General. A tray of instruments lay patiently by the side, waiting to be used.

The guards made to push him forwards, but the Soviet immediately dug his heels into the ground, forcibly biting his cheek against the pain that resulted from his actions. Still, his guards were too strong; they easily dragged him along despite his efforts.

"Thank you for pointing out how uncreative I've been!" Jalil continued as the guards began to push Erik down upon the table. Calloused hands brushed against his chest, making him suck in a pained breath as he was pushed down against the table. "I've been thinking about what you said the entire night, and must admit defeat: I _have_ neglected you!"

He sounded deliriously delighted, Erik noted as he struggled against his captives. One hand was forcibly pushed down to the side of the table and tied firmly down.

"But then I thought of the _best_ thing, and just couldn't wait for you to wake in my excitement," Jalil said gleefully. "I hope you don't mind us disrupting your sleep."

Erik snarled, though it came out as a ragged breath. "What are you doing?" he demanded, forcing back the panic that started to creep up his throat as his wrists were strapped down. The guards moved to belt his torso down to the table, and he hissed painfully as the strap dug into his broken ribs.

"Giving you something to remember us by!" Jalil cried happily, repeating the words he had said to Erik one day ago. God, had it truly been two days since the General had started this torture? The pain—though he would never have admitted it otherwise—seemed endless. It was hardly credible to believe that his ribs had only been broken two days ago when every breath seemed to require enormous effort.

Erik felt his legs bound down as well, and he gritted his teeth together, staring upwards. There was hardly a ceiling, above him; just material tugged and pulled to form a tent. It felt strangely suffocating, a mass of death looming above him. He shook the unwanted thoughts away firmly; he could not afford to succumb to any moment of weakness. He could _not_ think of death at a time like this. Mustering up his strength, he hissed through gritted teeth, "I'm warning you, Jalil—"

"No empty threats, Phantom," the Afghan General interrupted, waving his hand dismissively, "don't waste my time." Affronted, Erik Confidently, he strolled towards the tray of instruments, picking up a clear bottle. He idly mixed it, swirling the colourless liquid within the bottle. Erik stared uncertainly at it, unsure what it contained. He tensed as Jalil began to approach the side of the table he was laying on, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

"Do you know what this is, my friend?" the General asked, a small smirk playing at his lips.

He pulled open the stopper, and if Erik was expecting the liquid to hiss menacingly, he was sorely disappointed. It was still and motionless as ever, almost as if the man had taken a vial and filled it with still water. There was nothing menacing about the liquid, nothing sinister about the way it sloshed as Jalil swirled it around.

"Do you?" Jalil prodded, unwilling to answer without a response.

Erik simply pursed his lips together, refusing to humour the man. "No."

A smile curled on Jalil's lips, dangerous and unsuspecting. It was strangely revolting, seeing the man's expression develop into an eerie glee; his wrinkled skin stretched widely, his charcoal eyes looming darkly. Erik found himself trying to suppress a shiver that threatened to run down his spine; he felt suddenly, inexplicably unsettled.

"Acid," Jalil said softly. "It's acid, Phantom. I'm going to pour acid all over your face and burn your skin. You'll _never_ forget us as long as you live."

It was as if all the blood had drained from his body. Everything made sense, now: how gleeful Jalil felt, how menacing the seemingly innocent liquid looked, how uneasy he felt. Erik's breaths quickened, his pulse starting to race. He could feel his blood pounding in his ears.

It was the first time he felt true, unadulterated fear.

Before he could voice a word of protest, before he could think of a solution to this dire situation, Jalil threaded fingers into his hair and forced his head back. His left cheek was forced to the side, cool wood digging sharply into his skin.

And then, he felt the first drops of liquid upon his face.

It was as if his skin was being set alight. Everything was hot and burning, and it was tearing him apart. Vaguely, he noted the liquid eating away at his cheekbone, flesh dissolving at the slightest touch of acid. His nose seemed as if it was melting into itself. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and struggled, no longer aware of anything, no longer wanting anything apart from being _away_ from this torture, from this man who was skinning his flesh away with liquid fire.

Erik screamed.

He screamed at the pain, no longer remembering his need to remain strong—for what strength could he have if his face was dissolving into itself? He couldn't concentrate on maintaining his dignity, not when everything was setting itself alight. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted that he wouldn't have been surprised if his skin was sizzling, jets of steam rising from his decaying skin.

And then, miraculously, it stopped.

A deep breath shook through him, powerful and immediate and painful. Everything was sore and scorching, the warm air stinging his half-formed flesh. A moan escaped his lips and for a moment, everything seemed to still.

The indistinct thrum of voices echoed through his hazy mind, unclear and foggy.

"...Ya Allah, what are you _doing_ , man?"

That voice sounded familiar—Khan. Khan was here. Perhaps Khan was going to hold his head back, to unscrew the stopper for the next vial of acid. Khan had not stopped any of this; Khan could not be trusted.

"You aren't a part of this, Khan. Leave me be."

Jalil. That was Jalil.

"Are you _insane?_ You've beaten the man half to death!"

"Why does his life concern you so? He is the _enemy_ , Khan—"

"He _works_ for the enemy. That is different!"

"Don't question me, Khan—he is a traitor!"

"He is not our man; how could he betray us? Now— _let him go_ —"

 _"No! Take him away!"_

He heard shuffling, then. A hoarse shout, a visceral growl.

 _"What does it matter if he lives or dies?_ You are of the _mujahideen_ , Khan—don't forget where your true loyalties lie!"

"You're going to kill him—"

 _"Then let_ — _him_ — _fucking_ — _die!"_

The words were interrupted by what sounded like harsh blows—he couldn't see, couldn't understand what was happening—and then suddenly, he didn't care anymore, because the fire was on his face again and it was all he could do to cry out. He couldn't listen any longer, couldn't understand what they were saying. Everything was a facade of _feeling_ , and it was prying him out from the inside, slowly eating at flesh and bone until he wondered if there would be anything left.

He screamed and screamed and screamed until he could scream no longer.

Then, Erik succumbed to the darkness.

* * *

 _Christine, think of Christine_ —

 _It was scorching, burning; everything was a multitude of maniacal laughter._

 _No, think about Christine_ —

 _But how could he? Her image was blurred in his mind, her perfect face taunting his breath._

 _No! Don't give up; you need to return to her, you need to_ fight—

 _There was a knife tracing above his eye, digging painfully into his bone, another mark upon his skin. He screamed again; he couldn't do this. He wanted to die._

 _"Did you contact the Soviets? Did you bring them to our camp?"_

 _"No! Don't, please, I'll do anything_ —"

 _"Tell me the truth!"_

 _"I didn't do it, I didn't bring them here_ —"

 _"Yes you did!"_

 _"Kill me_ — _just kill me_ —"

 _It went on and on. Nothing seemed to stop, an endless torture of pain and agony. He felt the trace of a knife above his eye, a streak across his bone._

 _And when it did stop, he felt fingers grasp at his hair and painfully pull him upwards; his head followed, too weak to offer any resistance._

 _"Hah! Look at yourself, Phantom—look at you! Hideous, deformed, disgusting."_

 _He could hardly remember hearing the words, could hardly remember opening his eyes. Because suddenly, he was facing a mirror, but he didn't see himself._

 _All he saw was the twisted cheekbone, the nose that wasn't there, the eyebrow that was carved upwards. And yet, the other half of the face..._

 _The other half was not unfamiliar or revolting. It was smooth, shining with sweat and dirtied with gore, and yet unmistakably his own visage._

 _"I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and see what you used to have. And then when you turn your head and see, you'll remember what we did to you. You'll remember that the_ Dukhi _have left their mark on you_ — _forever!"_

 _Hideous, deformed, disgusting._

 _Hideous, deformed, disgusting._

Monster.

 _And he couldn't think, couldn't remember why he wanted to live anymore. The voice of his angel seemed too distant to reach now._

 _No! Think about Christine!_

 _Christine? Christine, Christine, Christine_ —

 _Who's Christine?_

* * *

 **A/N:** Leave a review and I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible!


	18. Not With Haste

**A/N:** Thank you guys for the reviews! I'm so glad you liked the last chapter.

It's 3.35am and I have an essay to do tomorrow, but I found myself unable to concentrate on Shakespeare when my mind was on Erik and Christine. So, instead I allowed myself to get distracted, but productively so.

...Okay, that's the shittiest excuse for refraining from doing an essay I have ever heard. Have this chapter.

 **Warning:** Smut! Skip the ending of this chapter if it's not your thing.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Not With Haste, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _Do not let my fickle flesh go to waste,_

 _As it keeps my heart and soul in its place._

 _And I will love with urgency but not with haste._

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

The theatre was abuzz that evening.

The company had just finished a matinee performance, and were due to meet for an informal meal—or rather, a light snack before dinner—to celebrate a successful first-half of their run. The auditorium foyer was filled with chatter, performers and musicians alike sharing drinks and laughs. They had changed out of their costumes and stood with such nonchalance that suggested a comfortable relationship with their fellow cast and crew. It was amiable; relaxed.

The leading soprano for the season stood by the side of the hall, amiably chatting with the first violinist, a glass of champagne in hand. Her smile was noticeably warmer, her posture relaxed and easy. Chestnut curls tumbled down her back, a wave of hair over sleeveless shoulders. She nodded enthusiastically at something the violinist said, letting out a charming laugh along with it as she took a dainty sip from the flute.

She seemed happy, untroubled. It was a rare sight for their starring soprano.

Only moments later did she find herself interrupted, a tap of fingers against her arm. Excusing herself, Christine briefly turned to glance behind her, a questioning look on her soft face. She found herself staring at a certain Meg Giry, prima ballerina and her dearest friend.

"I'm sorry, Luka—could I have a moment with Christine?" the blonde asked politely, pretty face stretched into a sweet smile.

The violinist—Luka—was an aged man, currently passing his fiftieth year. He waved a hand good-naturedly, trimmed moustache tickling his upper lip. "By all means, my dear."

"Thank you," she said graciously, before tugging at her friend's arm. The singer paused a moment to place the now empty champagne glass on a lone table before she let herself be led away by her companion.

Meg led her to the corner of the room—not having left the party, but lingering by the sidelines. The crowd of cast members laughed around them, warming the air with pleasant chatter. Christine let out a contented sigh, her chest full and brimming. For once, everything in her life seemed to be going perfectly.

Upon turning her head, she found herself face-to-face with Meg's knowing smile. "What?" she questioned instinctively.

"I couldn't wait to speak with you," Meg said, pink lips still curled upwards. Her blonde hair was tied up in a high ponytail, a little bow adorning her waves. She looked absolutely enchanting.

Christine raised an eyebrow, blue eyes sparkling with mirth. "Why not?"

Meg leaned against the table they stood by, an elbow propped to support herself. "You've just..." She shrugged. "There's been such a change in you, Christine. You seem so much happier."

The simple observation was enough to spread warmth through her chest. Christine looked down at her feet, a secret smile curling upon her lips. Thoughts of Erik, of the last two days filled her mind: their shared kisses, their little touches. It had all been very innocent (save for the time when her husband had made her come undone upon the couch with talented fingers) and reminded her very much of the times before he had left the war, when their relationship had been free and simple and entirely, irrevocably _them_.

That breech into intimacy had broken a barrier between them. Erik seemed much more comfortable with her caressing touches, her tender kisses. He held her hand when they sat together, finally obliged to listen to novels she read aloud for him. He hadn't revealed anything else of his experiences in the war, but she never prodded him, knowing to be patient. For the first time in months, he held her in his sleep: his arms around her waist, bandaged face buried in her hair. She would always fall asleep with a smile upon her lips.

The same smile was etched into her features as she stared at her blue ballet flats, simple and elegant. "I _am_ happy, Meg," she sighed, finally looking up to meet her friend's eyes. "Everything is _finally_ good again."

The ballerina's emerald eyes shone delightfully. She grasped Christine's hand in hers, grip firm yet caring. "I'm glad, Christine," she said honestly, a relieved exhale leaving her lips. "I thought perhaps that once... once Erik returned, you'd be happier, but for months you were still..." She trailed off, giving a helpless shrug.

"I know," Christine said softly, "I know. Things were... difficult between us for a while. He's been through so much, and I wasn't the best wife to him for a while." She sighed. "I didn't understand what he needed."

"But now you do?" Meg coaxed.

"I think I'm starting to," Christine finished, wanting to say no more. She knew Meg would want details, would want to see into their situation and understand as she did, but she couldn't bring herself to tell the blonde. After all, matters within their marriage should stay private, no matter how close of a friend Meg was to her.

Seeing that the brunette would say no more, Meg let out a sigh of defeat. "Well, in any case I'm glad that things are better between you and Erik," she smiled, apple cheeks flushed with a rosy hue. "How is he, by the way?"

Christine considerably brightened. "He's much better, thank you," she said happily, remembering how he had given her a lingering kiss in farewell when she departed for work that morning. It had been tender and sweet, and when he had pulled back, his golden eyes that were always so carefully guarded were openly loving, a certain wistfulness in his gaze to see her go. The memory of his slow acceptance of her warmed her heart.

Thinking of her husband made her want to return to his side once more, and she glanced down at her wristwatch to check the time. It was four thirty; a decent hour for her to journey home. She looked up at Meg to find herself facing the blonde's knowing look, one that she had frequently worn whenever the singer would sneak away to meet with her lover.

It had been years since Meg looked at her that way. Was she truly that lovesick girl once more; happy, untroubled, basking in the love of the most important man in her life?

 _Yes_ , Christine thought to herself as her heart thudded in her chest, steady and strong. _Yes, I am_.

"Go," Meg laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly to the brunette's. "They'll understand. Besides, we have socials almost every month. Leaving early from one won't hurt."

Christine smiled gratefully at her friend. "Thanks, Meg. I'll see you tomorrow."

She left her friend with an affectionate squeeze, grateful to have the blonde by her side. Meg had always been understanding throughout their long friendship, quick to realise when Christine needed time to herself, to know when she would want to withdraw. It was impossible to discern beneath her bubbly exterior, but Meg was surprisingly an attentive listener, a trustworthy friend. Christine was lucky to have such a woman by her side.

With slightly quickened steps, Christine made her way to the other side of the foyer, fetching her jacket from the chair it was draped over. It was plushy and comfortable when she slipped it over her shoulders, and she shook her hair out, letting bouncy curls tumble down her back. She slung her bag over one shoulder and made to leave the busy crowd of performers and musicians. The theatre was her home and joy, but she had grown weary of socialising. All she wanted at the moment was to return to the arms of her husband, to melt into his embrace and bask in his company.

Anton approached her as she was just about to leave, impeccable as always in his suit and tie. "Leaving so soon?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Christine smiled apologetically. "Guilty as charged," she said meekly, lifting dainty shoulders in a shrug. "Erik's waiting for me."

"And we all know never to keep him waiting," he said, a twinkle reflecting in his eyes. "Send him my regards, will you? And tell him that he's always welcome to visit during rehearsals. His input has always been valuable."

Now that they were in their first half of their run, no rehearsals were conducted during the day, but Christine remembered how helpful Erik's criticisms had been when he had frequented the theatre so many months ago. The KGB had released him from his duties, and he was currently unemployed. She knew he had always wanted to venture into professional architecture, but Anton's words made her wonder. Could Erik be interested in a long-term career in the theatre? The Bolshoi would thrive under his instruction, she knew. He could direct, he could compose. He could direct his own compositions. He could flourish, here—she didn't doubt it.

Christine nodded at the director, seriously considering bringing the opportunity up with Erik. "I'll tell him," she promised. "Thanks, Anton."

Anton nodded, giving her a smile. "Good. I'll see you tomorrow, Christine."

With a parting smile, she hastened to walk towards the exit of the theatre, finally stepping out into the evening air. The breeze was warm, the sun caressing her cheeks with a kiss. She let herself enjoy the summery air for a moment, letting her eyes flutter shut and a smile form on her lips.

Yes, she was happy. _Finally_ , everything seemed to fall into place once more. And after all they had been through, after every obstacle she and Erik had surpassed, she thought that they rather deserved this happiness.

Smiling, Christine blinked cobalt eyes open once more and grasped at the strap of her bag upon her shoulder.

It was time to go home.

* * *

 _"Erik, wake up."_

 _Something was tapping against his good cheek, soft and insistent. The voice was hushed and sharp, and he groaned, never once opening his eyes. He was tired. He didn't want to listen._

 _"Erik, please. We don't have much time_ — _we need to go."_

 _Yet, there was something familiar about that voice: the hushed timbre, the thick accent..._

 _Khan. The man speaking to him was Khan._

 _He reluctantly opened tired eyes, almost certain that they would be bloodshot with how little he had slept. Lifting his head was an effort he did not want to overcome. His entire body was scorching, his head pounding. The pitiful rags upon his body were not enough warmth for the night._

 _Khan was working on the ties to his cage, and he watched as one by one, the ropes began to loosen. It was a fascinating sight, this look into freedom. And by the frantic way Khan was working, throwing worried glances behind him before hurrying to work on the binds, it was almost as if the chance to escape seemed real._

 _But then the door to the cage was open and Khan was stepping inside, his hand stretched out_ — _not threateningly, but invitingly. He lifted his heavy head, stared at it. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Everything was swimming around him._

 _He hardly remembered leaving with the man; there was only the effort of standing, the orders from Khan to stay silent, the effort it took to lift his legs and step. It seemed to go on forever, and he wondered if this was his new torture. Maybe Khan was leading him to another one of Jalil's traps._

 _But even if the man was, he didn't have the energy to protest._

 _Everything was moving in an out of focus. He vaguely remembered venturing into the woods, Khan's soft murmurs to watch his step lest he trip on twigs or roots. The night was black around them as they moved forwards, his arm slung around the other man's shoulders, leaning heavily against his companion as he struggled to walk. They seemed to walk on forever, forwards and forwards until he was sure his feet would not be able to keep him upright any longer._

 _Then, finally, there was a vague outline of a lone house. It was small and inconspicuously hidden, blending easily into the forest in its make of wood. He lifted his head, struggling to look at the home as Khan urged him forwards._

 _It was warm inside, he remembered that. Warm and light, but not blindingly so; it was cozy, in a way. Khan walked him inside and then there was a woman, her eyes wide and mouth hanging open, black hair void of its covering and falling loosely down her shoulders._

 _Rookheeya._

 _A gasp of, "Ya Allah..." could be heard, but he paid no heed to it, because Khan was lowering him onto something more comfortable than the cage he had been in and he sunk down gratefully, resting his weary bones. There were hushed murmurs, but he was too tired to listen. He felt something soft below his head as he laid back, and closed his eyes._

 _Everything passed by in a blissful blur. He felt his neck supported as cool liquid wetted his lips, and he opened his mouth, drank greedily. A hand smoothened over his crown, soft and gentle before it was replaced by something cool upon his head. It wasn't as unpleasant as he had expected it to be. He caught some of the conversations spoken softly in the background but did not concentrate on them, not caring to do so._

 _"He's got a fever, Nadir. I don't know if he will make it."_

 _"He will, inshallah. Bring his fever down_ — _I'll fetch some antiseptic; we need to work on his wounds..."_

 _He vaguely remembered them prodding at him. There was heat and there was coolness, and he kept his eyes closed, the occasional moan escaping his lips. Sometimes, there was pain, and he shut his eyes tightly against it, wanting it to be over. They poked at his broken ribs, touched the scars on his face and back. It stung and it was irritating, but he couldn't move his hands; someone was holding them down._

 _A captive, once again. But this time, he didn't seem to care._

 _At long last they left him alone, and there were only two voices: one light and innocent, the other deep and tired._

 _"Papa, did he save me?"_

 _"Yes, Reza, he did."_

 _"Oh." Silence stretched on for a while, and he breathed steadily, feeling himself growing drowsier. "What happened to him, Papa?"_

 _A heavy sigh. "A bad man did bad things to him. He's hurt, but Mama and I are trying to make him better."_

 _The other voice was small, now. "Is he going to die?"_

 _A long pause._

 _Then,_ _"I don't know, Reza."_

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

"Erik?"

Christine closed the door behind her, walking into her home with a relieved sigh. While she enjoyed spending time with her cast members, their parties were often taxing after running a performance. Before Erik had returned to her, she would often look forwards to dozing off in her warm bed to rest her bones. But now her husband had come home—now that he was truly _here_ with her again, willing to mend their relationship, to take a step forwards...

Now Christine found herself hardly able to contain her excitement upon returning home to him once more.

The flat was quiet as she stepped towards the counter, looking around. Shrugging her jacket off her shoulders, she placed the garment upon the surface. It was particularly hot, she noticed; Erik hadn't aired out their home today. She wondered why.

A glance towards their living room showed the cushions on the sofa to be tidy and unwrinkled, the coffee table unmarked by any mug stains or cold cups. Recently, Erik had taken up to reading the news once more—but no, there was no folded paper lying on the sofa. In fact, there was no hint that Erik had been sitting in the living room at all.

Christine pursed her lips, looking around. It was becoming something of a routine: returning home to find Erik missing, resulting in her searching frantically through their flat until she found him, usually in a problematic condition. The uneasiness she had grown so accustomed to began to settle within her, pressing and unwanted.

"He might have gone out," she muttered to herself in consolation. And there was the possibility that Erik _could_ have ventured out of their flat; he was becoming progressively better since their breach into intimacy, seemed no less haunted but still willing to move forwards, to let go. She remembered falling asleep in his arms a night ago and clung fast to the memory, refusing to succumb to the worry that was increasingly pressing at her mind.

 _But what if he's hurt?_ a voice inside her mind said pressingly. _What if something bad's happened_ — _what if he's in pain or suffering and you're just standing around, not bothering to look for him, not_ caring _..._

 _Of course I care_ , she insisted adamantly, stubbornly. She loved Erik more than anything in the world, would sacrifice her happiness for him in an instant. How could any part of her doubt that?

Still, the voices in her mind would not cease their worrying, and she found herself succumbing to her thoughts. Her feet began to lead her forwards, down the hall to the corridor that led to their bedroom. The air was still around her, strangely stifling. It reminded her of the times when Erik had been reserved and she impatient, when everything was tense and strained between them...

Something was wrong.

Their bedroom door was shut when she came across it. Usually Christine would not think twice about walking into the room without announcing her presence, but Erik could possibly be in a state of undress, and though she had seen him bare before she knew he would not be comfortable with it. Unsurely, she lifted a fist and knocked upon the wood—once quietly, then upon receiving no answer, more insistently. "Erik?" she called, feeling the lines on her forehead beginning to crease into a frown. "Erik, are you in there?"

No answer.

Swallowing back her unease, she hesitantly twisted the knob; it easily gave, the door slipping open as she pushed at it. "Erik?" she asked again, peeking into their bedroom. Her subconscious predicted it would be empty, yet seeing the sheets turned down, the bedside tables bare of any books, the thick curtains drawn shut, plunging the room into darkness...

It didn't sit well with her.

The only light that illuminated the room seemed to come from the right, and cobalt eyes followed the trail of brightness with her gaze before settling upon the bathroom door. It was open just a crack, enough to bring streaks of white into the darkened room. It was strange—Erik _never_ forgot to air out their room, to leave the windows open and allow light to seep through.

But despite how perplexing she found this abrupt halt of his routine, Christine found herself instantly distracted by the sound of gasps sounding from the bathroom.

He was in there, and he was hurt.

There was no doubt, no hesitation as she flung the door open and strode into the room. Her only thought was of him—that she could hear his strangled coughs from their bedroom, his wild breaths. "Erik—" she began, before she stopped in her tracks at the sight before her.

It was a scene that could have emerged from a horror film. Erik was crouched on the floor and curled up into himself, his knees drawn up to his chin and head bowed. His entire body shook with rakish gasps, the sight making a shudder travel down her bones. The mirror in front of the sink was broken, shattered into tiny pieces, and—she gasped—there were faint hints of red staining the shards of glass still hanging on the broken mirror. Her gaze rested upon the sink; it, too, was filled to the brim with shattered glass, all coloured red.

Blood.

Instantly, Christine rushed over to the sorry sight of her husband on the floor, kneeling before him. Her hands were shaking as they hovered uncertainly about him, unsure if she should touch him. "Erik," she breathed, hardly able to form words as her mind whirred. His head was still bowed but the gasps that shook through him had ceased, his entire body still with tension. She reached out a hand to rest upon his arm, but he flinched away at her touch. Startled, her dainty hand flew back to her chest.

"Erik—" She tried again to touch him, but he shook her hand away.

"Leave, Christine," he said roughly, voice hoarse but still commanding. He seemed to lower his head further, and she began to ask that he look at her before she caught sight of the abandoned strips of bandages towards his side, tangled and torn. A knot formed in her stomach at the realisation that he must have ripped them off his face.

His face was uncovered, exposing his malformed features to the warm air, and he didn't want her to see him.

And some part of her, selfishly, didn't want to see him, either.

Not because his appearance was different—she was not shallow enough to think that anymore. No, she didn't want to see what the Afghans had done to him; how they had ruined his beautiful, sculpted face with their sick torture. She didn't want to look upon his suffering, didn't want to expose her eyes to the man-made monstrosity he had so carefully kept hidden beneath his bandages. She remembered the night she had stumbled upon him in the bathroom, the spiteful words he had spit out when she recoiled in horror from his visage.

No, Christine didn't want to see his scars.

But somehow, she remembered that this was her husband—that this was _Erik_. Her love for him still burned brightly despite having already seen the horror he'd had to endure; her feelings for him were not affected by his appearance. She loved more than just his face—had _always_ loved more than just his face.

It was her greatest regret to make him doubt that.

So, pushing away her queasiness at seeing his mangled flesh, she faced him determinedly. "Erik, look at me," she pleaded, skirting closer towards him with her knees. His arm was hard under her hand, the firm muscle evidence of his service to the country. She wanted nothing more than to gather him into her embrace, to assure him that she wouldn't scream if he was to lift his head.

Erik, however, shared none of her sentiment. "No!" he said fiercely, this time shaking her hand off with more force. His face was still buried within his knees, arms hugging them to his chin. He seemed so small, then; so much like the little boy he'd never gotten the chance to be. It tore at her heart, threatening to break her composure. "No, Christine— _leave me_. You don't want to see me—don't want to see _this_ , I know you don't—"

"Erik, it doesn't matter to me," she insisted firmly. There was no question that she had done him wrong that fateful night, but she was determined to ensure he didn't continue believing in her disgust at his face. She had to make him believe in her love—she _had_ to.

Scooting closer, Christine lifted her hand to the back of his precious head, soothingly running her fingers through his hair. Erik shuddered violently beneath her as she leaned in to press a kiss to his hair, and she swallowed back her tears. Her calm was slowly dissolving to see him in such a way, but she would not— _could not_ —let him see that. No; she needed to be strong for him.

"Stop," Erik begged, honeyed voice contorted and broken. His beautiful voice was muffled by his hidden face, and she let out a shaky breath against his hair. "Don't look at me—just go. I don't want you to see me like this, so please—just go, just leave me—"

"Baby, please." She closed her eyes tightly and breathed in the scent of his hair, rich and damp with sweat. He was trembling beneath her, desperately clinging onto the little dignity he had left. A lump blocked her throat as she tried to swallow. "Erik, please—I love you," she pleaded, not knowing what else to say. How could she express that to him in a matter of three words? Her head spun, her nose rich with the smell of coppery blood, her eyes holding back the tears that threatened to fall. Holding him tightly to her, she declared in a fierce whisper, "I love you, and nothing can change that; not your face, not your body, not what you've been through. I love you more than what you've suffered, and I love you more than what's happened to you. Please let me show you that— _please_ let me see you."

The silence rang thick and piercing through the air. He seemed to still beneath her; she felt the tension in his bones alleviate slightly. Hope began to flare within her chest, wild and unburdened, and for a moment she wondered if he would comply to her. Oh, if only he would believe her—if only she could reach into herself and bring forth everything she felt for him before his eyes, let his golden gaze _see_ the unrestrained, careless devotion she held towards him—

But her longings were quickly dashed as he continued to shake his head. "No, Christine," he croaked. "You'll be disgusted—"

"Your scars won't disgust me, Erik," she said despairingly, anguished that her initial reaction to his face would haunt him in such a way. She wanted to scream, to slap her past self for how _inconsiderate_ she had been, for how she hadn't thought of the _impact_ of her actions. Her fingers curled within his locks, tightening their grip. Words began to tumble from her lips, excessive and desperate, begging him to believe her. "I can't express to you just how _much_ I love you, Erik. This isn't going to go away because some madman hurt you—this _hasn't_ gone away. _None_ of what happened to you was your fault, and I'm not going to shun you for something you have no control over. Just," she lowered her head to press her forehead to his hair, " _please."_

He was silent for a long time, the lean body beneath her rising and falling with shaky, unsteady breaths. She held her own, refusing to move, refusing to let anything disrupt him as he mulled over his thoughts in his head, considering her words. Within her chest, her heart was beating wildly, reeling from suspense and terror of his rejection. There was no sign of his refusal, but she couldn't discern if he would consent to her wishes, either. Instinctively, her lips sought out his hair again, pressing to his scalp with a tender, desperate kiss.

Erik let out a single, defeated groan beneath her.

"Fine," he sighed.

Then, he lifted his head.

The first thing that went through her mind was that it wasn't as bad as she thought it would be. Yes, the marred side of his face was still grotesque—twisted and malformed as it had been when she had last seen it—but where once she felt repulsion, she now felt deep despair. Perhaps time had emphasised his image within her mind, had made it out to be worse than it actually was; the nausea of seeing his exposed face was entirely nonexistent. She exhaled a gust of air, grateful and pained at the same time.

There was the evidence of his time in captivity, the evil imposed upon him imprinted clearly on his melted flesh. Helplessness coursed through her bones to know that this had been _done_ to him; that this was no accident of a bomb, or a rifle aimed at the wrong man. No—this was the cruel, careful work of a maniac. It was heartbreaking to see his scars up close; to trace the dip of his cheek with her eyes, to see the raised eyebrow carved into his skin... She struggled to keep her tears at bay, knowing he wouldn't want to see her cry for him.

It tore at her heart to see him glaring at the tiled floor of their bathroom, golden eyes trained away from her. His entire stance was rigid, held firmly beneath her hands. "Fine," Erik said bitterly, voice low and hollow. "Fine, Christine. Look at me. Look at this face that's not a face anymore—look at what he's done to it. You don't want me to see your disgust, Christine, but I know it's there. Hell—I can't even fault you for thinking me repulsive. How can I, when I can't even bear to look at myself? I'm hideous," he shook his head dejectedly, "ugly, grotesque. You don't have to tell me, Christine—I already know it."

This time she couldn't keep her tears at bay, and fixed her gaze on the floor to hide her expression from him. The self-hatred in his tone tore at her and she struggled to breathe evenly lest she betray her despair. He would only think she was crying out of pity or repugnance, and she wouldn't be able to contradict his words should he say so; her voice was stuck within her throat, threatening to escape in a hitched sob that she desperately forced down.

But as she kept her gaze on the floor, her eyes caught sight of his knuckles tightly fisted by his sides, trembling with tension and strength. Streaks of red marred his bones, and she could she hints of glass shards etched within his skin.

Slowly, the wave of emotions that had threatened to burst within her seemed to calm significantly, lessening to a gentle current. The sight of his blood cleared her mind, gave her a purpose. Erik was hurt, and he had been hurt countless times before, but this time, it was different.

This time, she would actually be able to help him.

Wordlessly, Christine rose from her position and began to walk towards the bathroom cabinet, where their medicinal supplies rested. Upon opening it, she found countless instruments of healing; Erik must have somehow acquired them in his need to stock up on bandages after his return from the war. Swallowing, she rummaged through the compartment, pulling out the tools needed to clean and dress his wounds. A pair of tweezers were collected to add to her pile before she closed the cabinet.

Erik hadn't moved from his spot when she turned from the cabinet, holding gauze and antiseptic in her hands. Approaching him carefully, she knelt before him and reached a hand out to soothingly run her fingers through his hair. The texture of his black tresses was soft as she lovingly brushed a wayward strand away from his forehead. Her thumb skimmed the edge of his artificial eyebrow and he flinched, drawing away from her slightly. Her eyes widened in alarm—had she hurt him? Were his wounds still tender?—but the rigid way in which he held himself told her it was not the case.

A shaky breath left her lips and she closed her eyes, willing her tears away. _Focus_ , she told herself firmly. _You can dress his wounds, you can try to help him. Don't be a coward, Christine._

She placed the gauze strips on the floor and let her hands drift to where his fists were tightly clenched. He stilled as her hand touched his, soft fingers grazing calloused knuckles, carefully avoiding the bits of glass wedged within his skin.

"You're bleeding," she said gently.

Erik pursed his lips. "I broke the mirror."

She glanced up at the sink, letting her eyes trail over the mess of glass. It was entirely shattered, the block of wood behind it slightly cracked; he must have struck a forceful blow. Turning back to face him, she asked quietly, "Why?"

He bowed his head, hiding his face from her once more. Realisation struck her then; he had seen his own face within the mirror, had gazed upon the flesh that was ruined and distorted by someone else's hands, had faced memories he hadn't wanted to think of...

Christine silently took his hand in hers, holding it gently as she retrieved the tweezers from the floor and began to extract glass from his skin. She worried that he might feel pain as she carefully plucked each shard out, but Erik was motionless throughout the entire ordeal, head still bowed, shoulders slumped dejectedly. She had never seen him so defeated, so broken. It sent a sharp gust of anger within her, hot and burning.

Erik was not the best of men. She had known this upon marrying him; had known of his kills, his stubborn nature, his ruthless reputation. She had known it and ignored it the best she could, content to live in her blind bliss with him. Sometimes, it was only in the early hours of morning that she would feel him slip into bed with her, and it was during these moments that she would force herself to feign sleep, to brush away the thought that the hands holding her had taken the life of another mere moments before he had arrived...

No, Erik was not a morally good person. She was not blind enough to ignore that, and sometimes, she found herself questioning how she could love him when he worked as an assassin.

But even if he had killed a thousand men, he did not _linger_. He did not take pleasure in killing—not since he started seeing her, anyway. Oftentimes after he returned from an assignment, Christine found herself having to hold him as he slept, ensuring that his mind was not plagued with nightmares, offering him the best comfort she could give.

Her husband had killed, lied, stolen. He had committed many sins under religion and law. By social standards, her Erik was not a good person. He might have wronged many, but _damn it, he hadn't deserved any of this_.

Erik had faced so much hardship in his life, and it had always left him a stronger man, a fiercer warrior. She had always admired that within him, had always been proud of her husband's spirit despite all that had been done to him when lesser men would have succumbed to defeat.

But now, he seemed to have given up. He was stripped of his pride, his dignity, his body. It was threatening to break him apart.

And Christine was determined to hold the pieces of him together, to show him that he _still_ held his strength.

His knuckles were now wrapped in bandages, cleaned and free of broken glass. The blood that had been running down his skin had been carefully wiped away with a wet cloth, leaving his hands clean. Rising to her feet, Christine collected the torn bandages and bloodied cotton strips she had used to clean with before disposing them. She walked back to where he sat and held out her hand to him. Erik didn't look up but took it without a word, allowing her to pull him to his feet and following as she led them out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

With a gentle push, Christine guided him to sit upon the bed. He was still as she moved towards the windows and pushed the curtains aside, bathing the room in the fading glow of the evening sun. It was quiet, peaceful—still.

She turned back to look towards Erik. His back was facing her, straight and rigid, the tension within his shoulders barely concealed. It was despairing to see her husband so tense after their slow progression back to familiarity. It was only this morning when he had cupped her face with his hands before she could leave for the matinee performance, when he had leaned in and kissed her so softly, so tenderly, that her knees had threatened to collapse right then and there.

Now, he was distanced and cold again, refusing to let her in.

But Christine had been given a taste of heaven merely hours ago—she was not about to let it go so easily.

With calm, determined steps, she moved around the edge of the bed to stand before him. Cobalt eyes fixed on his black hair, messy and wild, so unusual for her neat husband. A slender hand reached out to bury fingers within his thick strands.

At her touch, Erik seemed to relax a little. A deep exhale escaped his lips, long and controlled as he leaned into her touch, inviting her caresses. Still, he couldn't hide how his eyes were clenched tightly shut, how his lips were pressed together in a thin line.

He was afraid.

Her Erik was afraid of her reaction to him, of her rejection. He didn't want her disgust or her pity—he had made that clear countless of times before. Here he was, allowing her to gaze upon him in his most vulnerable of moments, and he was terrified.

Her heart melted at the realisation, blood pounding within her veins as her love for him roared loudly in her chest. She needed to make him see that she had accepted his body, his mind, his suffering and sins. She needed to show him that with her, he was safe—that he would _always_ be safe with her.

That for as long as she lived, she would never strive to hurt him.

Sinking to her knees before him, she fixed a tender gaze upon his face. His eyes were still shut tight, lines marring his forehead with the effort of his tension. Cobalt orbs travelled across the ruined side of his skin, following the slight droop of the flesh beneath his eye, the dip of his cheekbone, the nose that caved into itself.

Her hands were surprisingly steady when she placed them upon his face. At her touch, Erik held himself entirely still; she couldn't feel the movement of his chest, knew that he was holding his breath. It was a strange sensation, to feel one cheek smooth and the other dipped; where she would once meet skin she now felt an unusual cave of air, warm beneath her palm. As gently as she could manage, she let her fingers wander over the skin of his face, her right mirroring her left as she traced the curve of his eyebrow, the crease of his eye, the ridges of his cheek, the bone of his nose. The right side of his face felt _familiar_ to her—she had, after all, touched his face countless times before, kissed every inch of his visage, his beautiful features she had found devastatingly handsome despite his disbelieved dismissal...

It was undoubtedly tragic, seeing the mirror of what he used to have. His perfect skin was stationed alongside his marred flesh, a cruel reminder of what he used to have every time he looked at himself in the mirror. It was a punishment of the worst kind, and Christine found herself reeling at his tormenter.

How _dare_ they do this to him? How could they treat this man— _her_ man—so unjustly, so unfairly? How could they do this to another human being—to her _Erik_...

A surge of protectiveness and devotion rose within her, a passion burning brightly inside her to show him that he was still _loved_ , was still cherished despite all that had been done to him. Rising up on her knees, Christine placed her palms on the skin of his neck and brought his face down to her lips. He predictably tensed as she trailed her mouth over his scars, over his forehead, eyes, cheek and nose, kissing every inch of his twisted skin. She tasted his tears when they fell, silent and still, and kissed them away, placing delicate caresses on the curve of his exposed bone, his deranged eyebrow. Finally, her lips reached the edges of his and she leaned into him.

Their kiss was gentle. She held herself to him, breathed in his scent as he sighed against her lips. There was nothing more beautiful than this soft, exquisite taste of his mouth against hers, of his hand slowly creeping up to rest against her cheek. Her heart was swelling within her chest, her entire being glowing as she felt his fingers tangle in her curly locks, felt him pull her closer. A roaring flame within her yearned to give him everything he wanted, anything he should desire. He was hers and she was his, and he deserved all she could offer.

 _Her_ Erik, _his_ Christine. She was his, she _belonged_ to him and him to her. There was nothing that was more right than the feel of him beside her, against her, holding her.

The gentleness soon faded away, and she suddenly found herself melting as he deepened their kiss, fingers curling within her hair, pulling her impossibly closer. Instinctively she moved to straddle his lap, winding her arms around his neck and tangling fingers into his hair as she pressed her mouth to his, hot and insistent and heavy. Desire ignited like a flame within her as his arms moved to circle her waist, his lips parting and tongue probing into her mouth in ways that made her tighten her grip of his hair.

Oh, Erik. He would not break; she wouldn't _let_ him. She would force the shattered pieces of him together and hold him until he could stand on his own two feet once more. She wanted to make him feel glorious, to make him feel divine, to remind him of the man she had fallen in love with.

Her lips trailed downwards when he broke away for air, moving across his jaw, lavishing his neck. His uneven breathing was music to her ears and she suckled on his rapidly thudding pulse, making him let out a deep, almost soundless moan.

"Christine," Erik breathed unsteadily as her hands moved towards the buttons of his shirt, intending to undo them. When she unfastened the third button, he finally moved to firmly grasp her hands in his. "Christine," he repeated, this time more forcefully.

She lifted her head from his neck to look at him, feeling a familiar satisfaction within her chest at the haziness of his golden orbs, the way his lips parted as he breathed. _She_ had done this to him—had put that look in his eyes, had made him feel this way. A primal urge to give him pleasure rocked through her core and her fingers unthinkingly resumed their trail, moving towards the next button.

His grip around her hands tightened, forcing her to stop in her actions.

"Erik," she tried to reason, meeting his gaze with an earnest look, "please. I want to make you feel good, to give you what you've given to me..."

A hitched breath escaped his lips at the insinuation of her words, but he still shook his head. "No, Christine. You—my scars are disturbing. You shouldn't see them—"

"Haven't I just proved to you that I don't care?" she demanded, glaring at him fiercely. "Can't you _see_ that I don't care? _I love you_ ," she insisted, cutting him off when he opened his mouth to speak. "I love you and I've told you so many times. I want to _show_ you, Erik, I want to make you believe that it doesn't matter to me—"

He was shaking his head again. "No, Christine—"

 _"Please_ , Erik," she begged, meeting his bright golden eyes with a pleading look. "What happened to you was not your fault, baby—you _must_ know that. Please let me in—please let me see you."

Erik let out a groan at her words, tilting his head up and catching her lips with his in a heated, desperate kiss. His mouth was hot against hers and suddenly, she felt his hands let go of hers, choosing instead to tangle in her wild locks. Finding herself free of his grip, Christine quickly moved to undo the rest of the buttons, overjoyed that he did not halt her progress. It was wildly exhilarating to have him assist her in her task to push the shirt off his shoulders, his hands pulling away from her hair for a moment as she slipped the sleeves down his arms, ridding him of the garment.

His kiss spoke the words he could not, the yearning to be accepted, to let her love his body as she used to echoing in his lips moving against hers, his tongue brushing her own. She swallowed his breaths and pulled him closer, determined to give him what he craved, to touch him as she had done so countless times before.

His skin was warm and hard beneath her palms, but at the first brush of fingers against raised skin she stilled, her lips slowing against his. Erik too began to lose his ardour; he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers tiredly, letting out a single, deep sigh. For a moment, there was no sound apart from their heavy breathing, both husband and wife recovering from their heated kisses.

She wanted to see his scars, but again, she found herself afraid of what she would see. Erik had never spoken of what had been done to him, only told her that he was captured and his captives had given him his wounds. She clearly remembered seeing words carved into the skin of his back when she had walked in on him in the bathroom, remembered how horrified she had been to see his skin cut away to outline the writings traced into his flesh.

Would his chest look the same? Would she find his skin to be a stretched canvas of Arabic characters, a stream of messages she didn't understand?

Letting out a shaky breath, Christine pressed her lips against his once more, hoping to calm him before she moved her hands around to rest against his back. She had seen this before, would be prepared for what she would feel—but her breath still hitched when she felt the outline of characters beneath her fingers, slender and eloquently traced.

Erik, too, seemed unable to concentrate on their kiss, too tensed at the feel of her light touches against his scars, so she moved to wind one arm around his shoulder, burying her face into his neck and holding him in a tight embrace. He shook underneath her as she continued across his back, tracing every letter etched into his skin, feeling the dips of his flesh tender from being cut away to create the stencil. A sob shook through her when she reached the end of the phrase, a stream of anger and despair sharply cutting through her bones.

Good god, how _could_ they? He was a man, just like any other; he didn't _deserve_ this. What he must have gone through—the pain he must have felt as they cut away his flesh, as they mauled at his back the way they did to his face...

Her lips sought his skin out, pressing a long, shaky kiss to his neck. She couldn't believe this, simply couldn't understand how anyone could be so cruel. How could _anyone_ think of using another human being as a plaything, as a canvas to ruin as they wished?

Miraculously, it was Erik who moved to comfort her. She felt his thumbs soothingly stroke her hair, felt his arm gently curl around her waist.

She let out a shaky breath against his neck. "Is there more?" she whispered, closing her eyes.

"No," he murmured, leaning his cheek against her hair. "Not on my back."

"You mean there _are_ more, but on your chest."

"Yes."

Another sob escaped her lips and she wrapped her now free arm around his back, holding him tightly. "What does it mean?"

His voice was low when he answered, almost inaudibly, "I don't know."

She nodded against his neck, sniffing to control her sobs. Another kiss was pressed to his skin before she whispered, "I hate them."

"Me too."

They lapsed into silence, content for the moment to hold each other in their embrace. She listened to the steady breaths he took, felt the pounding of his heart against her chest. She listened to the inner workings of his body, still pushing, still fighting to give him life despite all he had suffered.

She admired him, she despaired for him, she loved him with her entire being. All she wanted was to forget this had happened to him, to continue on as they had before, happy and slowly tiptoeing towards tenderness once more...

But she knew that for him to be comfortable around her again, she needed to see his scars with her own eyes. She needed to look upon his body and swallow down her shock, to show him that he could trust her.

So she lifted her head from his neck and moved to cup his face, stroking at both the marred and smooth cheeks. His golden eyes met hers, deep and imploring, and she held his gaze.

"Can I see?" she murmured, breathing the words softly against his lips.

For a moment, Erik was unreadable. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, couldn't read his eyes even as she looked deeply into them, seeking an answer to her question.

Then, he sighed, closing his eyes. "If you must."

His words were detached and defeated, and she held her own for a moment to compose herself. Slowly, she leaned back from her position above him, creating enough space between them so she could see his scars. Taking a deep breath, Christine opened her eyes.

And cried out.

There, before her eyes, was a battlefield of wounds upon the skin of his chest. There were so many bumps and ridges, so much raised skin and missing chunks of flesh that the faded pink that came with scarring seemed to be the natural pigment of his skin. They were everywhere—by his breast, trailing down his stomach, grazing his hip...

Erik stiffened as she began to cry, but she could not speak, could not help the tears that streamed freely down her face. She shook against him, unable to tear her gaze away from the horrific sight before her.

"Erik," she whispered, her breath hitching as she let out another sob, "lie back upon the bed, please."

She pulled away and stood, allowing him the space to do as he asked. It was heartbreaking to watch as he emptily complied, his movements dejected and forlorn, as if he was facing his execution. Discomfort briefly passed his features as he lay on his back, staring directly at the ceiling, but his expression quickly smoothened into a blank look.

Another stream of tears fell from her eyes. She tentatively perched by the side of the bed, allowing herself to gaze down at her husband. He was not as thin as before, but still unusually skinny; silently, she vowed to reverse this, to never allow him to look this sickly again.

He held himself still when she leaned down to press her lips against his, gentle and soft. Shaky hands rested upon his chest, feeling ridges and faded scars beneath the skin of her palm. Christine breathed a silent vow of devotion into his mouth before she began to trail her lips downwards once more, over his jaw and neck, moving to rest just beneath his collarbone.

Erik's chest was heaving unevenly despite his cool facade as she began to kiss his breast. A tender kiss was held against every scar, every bit of raised flesh or uneven skin. She wanted to heal his suffering with her gentle touches, to erase the memory of violence with her soft kisses. With every new scar her lips found, she breathed a new vow against his skin: _I vow to keep you safe, I vow to love you endlessly, I vow to give you back the life you once had..._

As her kisses progressed, Erik seemed to relax. His breaths were still uneven, but not dangerously so. She lavished attention to his nipples, allowing herself a smile at the sound of his groan, delight creeping into her chest as hands moved to bury themselves in her hair. He had always enjoyed her kisses against his chest; now that he had allowed himself to forget his insecurities for the moment, the pleasure he had derived from her lips and touch seemed to have returned. Christine moved down to his ribs, brushing her lips over every single one, repeating her vow to never let him go hungry again. She would cook for him, she would feed him and fatten him up until he could no longer remember what it felt like to starve.

When she reached the side of his stomach, though, she came across a rather large gash. It was long and deeper than the others, the skin slightly darkened as if it had been held together by stitches. Her kisses slowed and she lifted her head, frowning at the scar.

Cobalt eyes met glazed gold, and Erik said rather drowsily, "He stabbed me."

Instantly, she sat up, blue eyes wide as she looked at him. "He _what?"_

Erik exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. "He was angry, that first day. I was a suitable substitute for the enemy. He cauterised the wound right after he made it, though, so there wasn't any infection or anything."

"He... _cauterised_ you?" she repeated disbelievingly.

"Stuck a scorching poker through the wound." Erik shrugged as if it was a small ordeal. "It worked in closing the scar."

"It must have been _painful_ ," Christine countered.

He was silent for a moment. "It was."

Taking another shaky breath, Christine let her gaze rest once more upon the gash. She had thought his skin had been held together by stitches, but now realised that it was particularly darkened because the skin had been forced to close. A shudder ripped through her. "How did you survive it?" she asked in a whisper. "How could you have gone through all this and stayed sane?"

Erik let out a humourless chuckle. "I'd hardly say I'm _sane_ , my dear, but it wasn't too difficult. The thought of you kept me fighting."

Christine looked at him with dumb shock. This man—this amazing, strong, _powerful_ man—had survived, had kept fighting, because of _her_. He had thought of her, had kept her in his head, struggled to stay alive because he wanted to come back to her.

She suddenly found herself overcome at his admission, and leaned down to claim his lips in a passionate kiss. An overwhelming need to give him pleasure roared through her veins, and she poured everything she had into their kiss, lips hot and insistent against his. Her hand travelled freely against his skin now, brushing over every scar, touching every hint of abuse against his skin. Erik's fingers tightened in her hair as her hand slipped into his waistband, feeling him hard and throbbing around her grasp.

He let out a hitched gasp as she began to stroke him, breaking their kiss to allow him to breathe. His twisted face did nothing to stop her suddenly heavy breathing as she watched him respond to her touch; his scars were simply another part of him, now—another part she would learn to accept. She watched his face, watched as his eyes clenched shut tightly, listened as a glorious moan escaped his lips.

She wanted more.

Abruptly, she released her hold around him, quickly moving down his body to undo the buttons of his trousers and yank the offending garment away. Erik gazed down at her with wide eyes as she began to kiss his navel, moving her lips against the cauterised scar, licking away the pain and the hurt. "Christine, what—"

"I love you," she declared fiercely against his skin, pressing kisses against his hipbone. His body was warm underneath her touch, his breaths coming out in harsh gasps. He shuddered beneath her as she hovered by the crease where thigh joined hip.

"Christine," he groaned, and her heart soared to hear his voice, contorted and deranged with pleasure, unbridled and free of any thought apart from what she promised to do to him with her lips. He was magnificent, her man—a being of strength and passion, a deep mix of appreciation and love settling within her bones. The scars on his skin lay forgotten as she kissed along his length, tenderly loving the most intimate part of him.

He let out a long groan when she finally took him into her mouth, deep and shuddering through his entire frame. She could feel his hitched breaths as she fitted him around her lips, using her tongue in ways she knew he liked, drawing groans and gasps and delirious whispers of her name from him. It was relieving to know that now, in this moment, he was not burdened by the memories of war or plagued by the horrors of his suffering. In this moment, he was merely a man being loved by a woman, deriving pleasure from her as she moved her mouth against the length of how he was made, giving him the physical pleasure he had been denied for so long.

Christine made love to him with her kiss, deep and wet and hot, loving the sounds he was making as she curled her fingers around the base of his length, as she soothingly stroked at the bone of his hip. She felt his fingers tighten in her hair as she inched all of him down, making him gasp as she sheltered him within her mouth, warm and safe and familiar. His words did not make sense, but she caught the words, "Christine," and "love," within the same sentence, and rejoiced inside.

Her Erik, her husband, her lover.

 _Hers_.

His release came not long after and he tightened his grip in her hair, a long moan ripping from his throat as he shuddered beneath her. It was no trouble to swallow him down, to taste him in the secret depths of his throat as she had done so countless times before. A warm glow lighted within her chest as she felt his breathing begin to slow, his breaths no longer uncontrolled but steady, his fingers loosening in her hair. She kept him within the warm cavern of her mouth, suckling gently as he began to soften, exhaustion seeping through his bones. It was only when he tugged at her hair that she released him from her mouth, pressing a final kiss to his shaft before lifting her head to gaze up at him.

Half-lidded golden eyes looked upon her, yet even despite his tiredness she could see the love he held for her openly reflected within his gaze. Smiling softly, Christine crawled up the lean length of his body, finally aligning her head with his. Dipping down, she met his lips with a slow, deep kiss.

His palm caressed her cheek when she pulled back, tenderly stroking her skin. He gazed at her softly and her smile widened, a shy laugh escaping her lips when his thumb grazed her mouth. _This_ was the Erik she remembered—happy, carefree, simply content to just _be_ with her, if only for a moment.

There was nothing that could distract her from him, not even the scars that were so plainly written across his features, distinguished and striking and vivid. Even as she gazed down at him, looked at his carved eyebrow, his sunken nose, his cheek that was barely there—even then, she did not hesitate to stroke his face, to press kisses to his face.

And as they settled against each other, drifting off in each other's arms, he never once tried to hide himself from her again.

* * *

 **A/N:** Dear readers, I'd like to ask a favour.

I'm participating in a singing competition that requires me to get likes on my audition video via Facebook. Likes count as votes, so I'm going to need as many as I can get. If you have Facebook, it would mean so much to me if you could follow this link and click on the like button. Singing is one of my greatest passions, and I really would love to stand a chance at winning this competition.

The link is here (remove the spaces):

(facebook . com) /LSESUMC/videos/686445744790604/?pnref=story

If you have done this, please drop me a message to let me know! I'd like to send you a personal thank you if you have!

And if you don't have Facebook, just drop a review!


	19. On My Knees

**A/N:** Thanks, as always, for your lovely reviews! I'd also like to extend my gratitude to everyone who's tossed in a like for my video—I didn't win, but I appreciate your support all the same. So thank you for that!

Enjoy the chapter—or, well, don't. You'll see when you reach the end.

 **Warning:** Violence. Ish.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Not With Haste, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _And I was broke, I was on my knees,_

 _And you said yes as I said please._

* * *

 _ **November 1980**_

Erik woke with a start, shooting upwards with a gasp.

The surroundings were strange. There were no sharp instruments placed by the counter, no sign of an empty tent or two bulky figures stationed outside the entrance. A shift showed him that his wrists were unbound, his ankles without ties. The surface beneath him was strange, too—not the solid wooden table he had been placed upon, but a thick cushion, warm and soft. It was not as comfortable as the mattress he owned at home, but still a luxury. There was a table sitting in front of the meagre couch—a _couch_ —that he was currently occupying, low and homely. The floor was wooden, the walls were wooden, the doors were wooden.

Not a tent.

This wasn't right. He was supposed to be in the dark, with the trees and insects surrounding him, in a _cage_ —

Golden eyes darted around the room in suspicion, catching the gaze of a black-haired woman, her grey eyes wide and startled.

They stared at each other for a moment, studying each other, waiting. He could count her breaths, could almost see the wisp of air gushing from her parted lips. The air around them was still, thick humidity engulfing his senses and making it difficult to breathe.

Then, Erik lashed out wildly.

His strike should have been neat and precise; she wouldn't have had time to react from his attack. But before he could do anymore than whip out his fist, he was immediately overcome by a sharp sting shooting through his insides. Immediately, he let out a shout of surprise at the feeling of his body beginning to twist and gnaw. His torso was burning, the white agony of screaming bones tearing through him, rendering him unable to do anything other than let out a shuddering moan from the pain. Somehow, he vaguely noticed the same woman hasten to lower him once more to the cushion, her motions strangely gentle.

"Your ribs are broken," he heard her say, and he closed his eyes, straining to focus on her words. "...need to lie down; don't overexert yourself. They will take time to heal."

The voice that spoke to him was uncommonly deep, slightly raspy in its timbre. He remembered that voice, had heard it before...

"Rookheeya," he ground out, managing to pry his eyes open to look at the woman.

Yes—he recognised her now. She was not wearing her shawl, and her long black hair was swept into a neat plait that draped over her shoulder. The grey eyes that had greeted him upon his awakening were shaded with large bags underneath them; her olive-toned skin was paler than usual, evidence to her exhaustion. Her pale lips were pursed into a thin line, her eyes sharply trained on his form.

Erik sighed tiredly, directing his gaze towards the ceiling. It was bare as it was wooden. "Where are we?"

There was a slight shifting beside him, then the gentle feel of a hand pressed against his forehead. Rookheeya's hands were soft, her touch light against his skin. "Your fever's gone down," he heard her murmur, relief laced in her tone. "I thought you'd never wake up."

He grimaced uncomfortably, unused to tenderness when he had been exposed to such brutality. His last memories were of pain—long and agonising, wave upon wave of violence, the inability to do anything other than scream...

Firmly, he pushed the unwanted memories aside. "How am I here?" he asked gruffly, refusing to meet her eyes. "You should have run, you and your boy."

"We did," said Rookheeya.

"Then why are you tending to me?" he snapped irritably. "Don't be stupid, woman—leave me. I don't know why the General decided to move me here, but he will be back soon enough—"

"Erik," she interrupted softly, "Jalil won't find you here."

He let out a sharp breath at the sound of his tormenter's name, tightly shutting his eyes. Jalil, the man who had broken his ribs, had taken Christine's locket, had sliced his skin like strips of ribbon. It was infuriating to think of—that he had allowed such a thing to happen, that such a thing _could_ happen to him, and he lifted a hand to his face in frustration—

And froze at the feel of something rough and unfamiliar under his palm, something that was not his skin.

For a moment he was still, palm still pressed to the strange texture that covered his face. Experimentally, he applied the slightest hint of pressure, but immediately hissed at the feel of the tender rawness of skin underneath the material, strange and throbbing and foreign.

The Afghan woman immediately curled a hand around his wrist to bring it away. "Don't," she reprimanded, leaning in to carefully rearrange the texture covering his face. "You'll upset your wounds."

"What?" he asked, aghast. There were wounds on his _face?_ Good god, did Jalil have no sense of control—?

Then, as if a tidal wave had rushed over him, memories of his experiences came swooping down upon him. The beatings and lashes of a knife, the stabbing and cutting and carving of skin, the sick, twisted smile that the General wore as he loomed above him, lowering a knife to his face...

Everything had been a multitude of pain and feeling after that. Erik could hardly remember what had been done, only that it had been the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced in his life. He remembered screaming, crying, begging—and then the faint memory of a hand yanking at his hair, forcing him to look into the mirror held in front of him.

Realisation dawned upon him. The rough texture he had felt were not foreign, but all too familiar with soldiers: bandages and gauze, wrapped around his face to hide the monstrosity Jalil had created from the world.

He was scarred, deformed, demented.

Hideous.

Rookheeya's gaze was solemn when he looked up at her, her grey eyes pained and laced with sympathy. "I tried to fix what I could," she said quietly, "but there was not much... not much that could be—"

"I understand," he said shortly.

"Would you... would you like to see?"

He shook his head firmly, almost too quickly. No, he didn't want to look at what Jalil had ruined, didn't want to see what he had lost. How could he? Last he remembered, the man had only carved out one half of his face—did he move to perform his sick brand of torture on the other side when Erik had succumbed to unconsciousness?

 _Torture_. His mind had unthinkably supplied the word upon thinking of Jalil, and Erik closed his eyes, feeling a knot tighten within his stomach.

He had been tortured, tormented by a man greedy with power, twisted with malice. He had been reduced to a slave, vulnerable to the madman's wills and delights, a puppet to do as his master wished...

It was humiliating, debasing, degrading. How could he ever face the world with strength again? He had been stripped of everything—his dignity, his pride, his face—and was left with a bruised body and broken spirit.

Taking a shuddering breath, Erik pushed his thoughts away, willing himself to harden once more. "Where are we?" he repeated, determined to focus on the situation at hand.

The thin _kurta_ Rookheeya wore dropped to expose part of her shoulder as she sat up. Her slender fingers were clasped in her lap, her back straight despite her weariness. "We're within the forest," she revealed quietly. "Nadir built us a safe home to go to, just in case anything happened to us."

Immediately, his eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you bring us there that night?" he asked suspiciously, an inkling of mistrust clouding over him. "You _insisted_ on going back to the camp after the fire dimmed, to find your husband. If he built this house for you, he would have known to meet you here. So why did you not bring us straight here?"

"Because she didn't know it existed."

Both Erik and Rookheeya looked up as Khan walked in. His brown skin was paler than usual, similar to his wife's complexion, and he too wore bags under his eyes. The creases of his forehead seemed deeper than usual, the gait in his walk heavy with every step he took. His black hair, always smoothened to the back of his head, was messed and unkept, as if he had not bothered to tidy himself for days. If it was possible, the man looked even more exhausted than his wife.

The woman in question rose as her husband entered the room. "I made some broth for when you'd wake," she said to Erik, grey eyes steadily holding gold. "I'll go and fetch it for you." And without another word, she walked across and exited the little sitting room, leaving the two men alone.

Erik regarded the Afghan man warily as he crossed the room. He watched as Khan sat down by the spot his wife had inhabited, letting out a deep sigh as he did so. The creases at the edges of his eyes seemed permanently fixed upon his face, as if the man had aged a lifetime in a matter of days.

"You brought me here," he remembered suddenly, staring at Khan with swift clarity. Yes—within the hazy recess of his mind, he recalled the sound of a hushed voice urging him to move, to remain quiet, to move quickly before anyone found them...

Khan nodded wearily, confirming his suspicions. "Jalil had taken it too far. If I left you there, he would have killed you."

"He will probably kill _you_ if you go back."

The man paused for a moment, before saying softly, "I know."

Erik let out a swift breath, gratified shock settling into his bones. Khan—virtuous, moral Khan—had risked his life, his position within the mujahideen, to save him. Him, _Erik_ : a man that ought to be his enemy, a man sent by the country that unjustly declared war upon his own...

A multitude of questions rose within his mind, threatening to slip out of his lips. Everything was a blur of uncertainty and distrust, and Erik was confused. Khan was not supposed to save him, was not supposed to defy orders and bring him away from the leader of his division. He was not supposed to take a nearly unconscious, weakened and bleeding prisoner to the safety of his hidden home, where Erik's very presence threatened the safety of his family.

But then again, Khan was not supposed to have snuck out every night to tend to Erik's wounds, either. He was not supposed to give the Soviet the food his wife had prepared, was not supposed to hold conversations with him, was not supposed to protest at the General's violent attacks against their captive.

"Why did you do it?" Erik found himself asking, turning his head slightly to look at his companion.

Khan did not make to answer; instead, he reached into his pocket to rummage for something. Erik watched with suspicious curiosity as the man searched for something, before the thick hand withdrew from the material of his trousers.

He turned his hand, revealing a golden locket lightly resting upon his palm.

Erik stared at the object with dumb shock.

It was unmarked, the metal smooth and without scratches. Wordlessly, he held out a hand; Khan gently placed it on his palm, the light chain brushing his skin. Erik examined it intently, taking in every rich detail, every intricate decoration. It was still perfectly intact, every swirl of its design clearly visible on the cool metal. Clicking the latch on the side, he let the locket slip open to reveal the photographs he so treasured.

They were untouched, still perfect. The portrait of Christine towards the left, the photograph of them together towards the right. His wife stared up at him happily, blue eyes untroubled and carefree; he glanced at the image of them together, studying the sharp angles of his own face, captured within a frame. He had been unburdened, unmarked.

It was a strange, hollow feeling within his chest to look upon what he used to have.

"I took it from you before Jalil noticed," Khan revealed, watching silently as Erik traced a thumb gently across the picture of his wife. "I kept it with me. I'm sorry for not telling you."

"Thank you," Erik murmured softly, still staring at the photograph of him and Christine. He wondered what she would think of him if she was to see him like this.

The moment was broken as Rookheeya walked in once more, this time accompanied by the little boy Erik recognised as their son. She held a steaming bowl in her hands, holding it out to the Soviet as she lowered herself to sit on the couch where he was resting. "You need to eat," she said firmly, grey eyes firm in her statement.

The Soviet grimaced; the thought of food seemed trivial. "I'm not hungry."

"You've been here two days without a proper meal," Khan said sternly, his demeanour hardening to match his wife's. "Eat."

Too tired to argue, the injured man struggled to sit up, wincing at the sharp sting in his ribs. He was too weak to protest as Rookheeya moved to help him, hooking an arm around his shoulders to carefully move him to sit. The boy—Reza—hovered uncertainly behind his father, watching the scene with wide eyes. Erik accepted the hot bowl from the woman when she gave it to him, spooning himself a mouthful and slipping it between his lips. The broth was warm and savoury, a delicacy compared to what he had been given in his captivity.

The inhabitants of the room were silent as he scarfed down the food, surprised at how hungry he appeared to be. After days of being denied proper food, the feeling of warmth within his stomach felt foreign and oddly satisfying. Before he realised it, the contents of the bowl were finished, even as he craved for more. Rookheeya's eyes were amused when he met them, and she shook her head. "Later," she said gently. "Your stomach won't be able to take too much."

Pursing his lips, Erik handed her the empty bowl before leaning against the soft back of the couch, letting out a sigh. His body felt warmer after having eaten, as if he had regained some of his strength. He found himself able to think clearly, and mulled over the events of the past few days.

"I need to leave," he said after a while.

Khan's head shot up at his words, hazel eyes wide with alarm. "You're still injured," he protested. "You can hardly walk. Stay for a few days, then you can go—"

Erik sighed exasperatedly. "They will be looking for me," he snapped, opening his eyes once more to glare at the man. Reza had moved to perch beside his father, and shrunk into the man's familiar embrace at the Soviet's brash reaction. His hazel eyes were wide, and with his hair unkept and wildly sticking from his head, the boy seemed to be the mirror image of his father. Erik took a breath before continuing more calmly, "Think about it, Khan. Jalil won't let me go so easily—you _know_ that. He is probably searching for me as we speak. It's sheer luck that his men have not found us—a novelty I don't want to test. I need to leave." He held the man's gaze firmly, golden eyes laced with reason and resolution. "The Soviet embassy is situated within the capital—I can make my way to them. They'll tend to me then send me back. No one need know about this."

But Khan was shaking his head. " _No_ , Erik," he said forcefully. "Rookheeya and I are leaving to the city in a few days; come with us then, and we will find you a hospital with proper medical care. You are in no shape to wander by yourself—"

 _"I am in no shape to put your family in danger_ , _"_ Erik hissed, feeling his temper slowly rising. "Don't be a _fool_ , Khan! Leave for Bagram tomorrow; I will start my journey tonight. The Soviets will recognise me if I come across them. They can take me to Kabul."

Khan opened his mouth to protest once more, but was interrupted by a gentle touch of a hand against his arm. "Nadir," Rookheeya said softly, watching her husband intently, "he's right. They'll be looking for him. I can give him enough supplies to last through two nights, and we've still got broth in the kitchen for him to eat before he leaves." She turned her gaze towards Erik, looking at him with a guarded concern. "Will you know how to find them?"

"I know the general direction of Kabul from here," he nodded. "I should encounter the Red Army along the way."

She turned once more to face her husband. "You see?" she implored. "Erik will be fine. We'll bind his ribs before he leaves so he'll be able to walk. It is the only way, Nadir." When the other man stayed silent, still holding an expression of doubt, she pleaded, "Think about Reza."

The father glanced at his son, taking in his inquisitive gaze, his curious eyes. Reza was entirely innocent, a boy amongst a war fought by men. He stared questioningly as Khan's gaze lingered, his small lips curling into a confused smile, as if to please his father.

Khan closed his eyes at the sight, running a hand through his hair and letting out a defeated sigh. "Fine. Find the Soviets, let them return you to your wife. We will gather some medical supplies for you to take with you."

Erik nodded gravely, turning to hold Rookheeya's solemn gaze. She watched him resolutely, her hand moving to gently rest atop his. Her head moved in a brief nod, as if to offer encouragement.

"Thank you," he said quietly. The golden locket was clasped tightly within his grip.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

The room was bright when Erik opened his eyes.

Sunlight streamed through the bare windows, uncovered by the thick curtains that usually hid them from groggy eyes. It lit the room with a soft glow, bathing the clean, elegant lines of their bedroom with light. The clouds were barely visible from what he could see, the skies clear and blue.

It was a wonder that he had not been rudely awakened by the morning light; he pondered at how he could have slept through it. Sleep was already difficult enough to come by as it was, for him—usually, he would need the room to be pitch black and silent before he could drift off.

Slowly, his senses began to adjust to the peaceful greeting of morning. He was warm—the bed he rested in was comfortable and cozy, duvet bunched by his waist. A faint wisp was blowing against the side of his neck, light and steady and pleasant. He tilted his head a little, golden gaze moving to rest on the image of an angel tucked into his side, curls messily spilling about his chest.

Careful not to wake her, Erik shifted slightly so he could properly look down upon his wife. She was the image of a sleeping beauty: rosy lips parted as she breathed, eyelashes faintly kissing her cheeks. The delicate arm draped over his chest was light but firm, claiming him for herself.

As he watched his sleeping wife, he allowed himself to think back upon the events of the night before. He'd been at his lowest, at first: fighting away memories he did not wish to keep, having the pain play vividly in his mind, hearing Jalil's malicious voice in his head. Remembering the torture, the agony, the humiliation of having his defences stripped away from him, leaving him bare and vulnerable. Looking at his twisted, ruined remains of a face in the mirror, Jalil's words echoing cruelly in his ears.

 _I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and see what you used to have. And then when you turn your head and see, you'll remember what we did to you. You'll remember that the_ Dukhi _have left their mark on you_ — _forever!_

Brushing a thumb over his knuckles confirmed his memory of driving a fist through the mirror, shattering the reflection of his image into tiny pieces. There had only been uncontrollable rage, a fierce agony, a lament for all he had lost. The pain seemed to be never ending, always seeking to torment him with every breath he took.

Then, an angel had come to him.

She had tended to his bleeding hands with the utmost care, clearing away the shards of glass etched into his skin. She had seen him, without bandages and bare before her, and looked upon him with unwavering love in her clear, crystal eyes. Her soft hand had caressed his missing flesh with a tender touch, her heavenly lips had drifted over his scars without fear. She had kissed every inch of his body, pleasuring him with her very being, making him remember what it felt like to be a man once more, to be _human_.

All this time, he had wondered if she was still as drawn to him as he was to her. If she still craved his rough touch, his imperfect body as she once had. Yes, she had told him that she wanted him, but he had still doubted her words. She had allowed him to touch her with the familiarity of a lover, certainly, but surely that had only been because he had dangled the promise of her pleasure from his fingertips.

But now that Christine had touched him as he had touched her, kissed him where he throbbed for her the most...

He felt his confidence slowly return, sure and steady. It was as if he was chancing upon an old friend: vaguely familiar but changed through experience, a companion he could reacquaint himself with. Cool air blew against the bare skin of his back, light and refreshing against his scars.

Long fingers reached out to softly stroke her cheek, drifting lightly over her skin in a tender caress. He could feel her begin to stir against him; her body moved in a languid stretch, a moan breathed from her lips. Her eyes scrunched up adorably before they blinked open, blue orbs sleepily focusing on gold. A small smile curled upon her lips as she leaned her cheek into his palm.

Erik tenderly gazed at her, his ruined cheek pressed into the pillow. Her skin was soft, but not smooth; he felt the ridges of little marks upon her cheek, evidence that she was a woman with the occasional mark popping up on her face. She had once complained to him endlessly about her skin, but he saw nothing less than perfection. She was ethereal, divine. Nothing about her appearance could ever change his opinion of her.

His breath caught to think that perhaps, though his case was more severe than the occasional crop up of marks, she might feel the same way about him, as well.

Christine watched him study her, cobalt eyes still heavily lidded from sleep. "Hi," she smiled softly, nuzzling her head into the pillow.

His lips lifted slightly at the adorable sight and he brushed a thumb over her lips, tracing their shape. His beautiful, perfect girl. "How can you do it?" he murmured, still stroking her skin.

"Hm?" she questioned sleepily.

"How can you love me when I am like this?" he asked, gesturing towards the malformed side of his face, blessedly pressed into the pillow and hidden from view. "I can't even look at myself without destroying a mirror," he quipped, a wry smile that didn't reach his eyes tugging at his lips. "But you... last night, you touched me, you kissed me. My face and body are repulsive, but you did it anyway."

"You're not repulsive, Erik."

A sigh escaped his lips and he closed his eyes. He thought about the scars and slashes across his chest, the carvings across his back. The decay of his face. "I don't believe that."

He felt her lips press to the palm that still rested against her cheek. "Then believe that I love you."

"You still say that, even after everything I've done, after everything that's happened..."

"It wasn't your fault, Erik."

He pursed his lips together, feeling a familiar wave of remorse flood through his veins. She didn't know, he remembered—didn't know the full extent of his story, didn't understand the full extent of what had happened in Afghanistan...

He felt her hands frame his face, one side creeping between his malformed cheek and the pillow. Feeling her touch against his grotesque flesh sent a shudder down his spine. "Erik," she said, but he kept his eyes tightly shut. No, he couldn't look at her—not her, his sweet, innocent Christine, the one person who mattered most to him in this world...

"Erik, baby, please look at me." Her voice came softer, this time, holding a pleading edge to it. He felt her soft thumb stroke at the ridges of his caved-in cheek, kind and loving and accepting.

A helpless groan escaped his lips, and, unable to deny her, he opened his eyes to meet her earnest gaze, honest and tender. She was radiant, beautiful. It took his breath away.

"I look at you," she whispered to him, looking deeply into his eyes, "and I see the strongest person I know. I see a man who's been used by the government and is still standing tall, who has fought for his _rights_." His heart thudded wildly within his chest, his sharp hearing hanging onto her every word. Christine inched closer to him, a small, sad smile upon her lips. "Erik, your scars are evidence of what you have gone through, and though you never deserved them, you've never succumbed to them. You have never allowed them to control you when lesser men would have gone insane from it all."

His gorgeous, darling girl—she couldn't see, couldn't _know_ what he did or did not deserve. Sighing, Erik made to pull away but she held him fast, fingers curling possessively into his hair. "I see the man I love beyond all reason," she continued in a fierce whisper, and his golden eyes darted to meet her fervent gaze. "I don't know what happened in Afghanistan, but whatever you did, you did because you had to. Sometimes crime is inevitable in war."

Her words triggered a distant memory within his mind, the words clearly echoing through his mind.

 _"I did not agree to join this war to experience brutality from the hand of one of my own."_

 _"It is inevitable, in war."_

 _"It is unnecessary."_

"It's unnecessary," Erik echoed in a murmur. He looked ahead without truly seeing, lost within the memories flooding through his mind. Christine watched as he lifted himself from the bed, disentangling from her embrace to sit up. She let her arms fall away, propping her wrists behind her back to push herself up. His bare back was visible to her, the letters etched into his skin faded but still poignant, still striking.

He had suffered so much.

He stared without seeing the clean lines of their modern wardrobe, ones he had personally designed for his and Christine's use. Scenes of the village played through his mind: the abandoned homes the soldiers had inhabited, the modest women who tended to their families, the laughing children who ran around in circles as the adults worked, lost within their game of cat and mouse...

He felt Christine's hand smooth against his naked shoulder and snapped himself out of his reverie. A sigh escaped his lips at her soothing touch and he leaned into the comfort she offered, closing his eyes. There was not a word said between them, husband and wife content to practice patience, to hold and be held.

For a long moment, Erik let himself get lost within his wife's embrace. She was warm and alive, and she was willingly here with him. She did not shun him, did not want to leave him...

Perhaps he wouldn't tell her. Christine hadn't specified the need to know what had happened, and he doubted that she would push him to tell her. What would she know if he kept his experiences from her? There was no way she could find out about Jalil, about the village, about _Khan_...

Her lips pressed against the curve of his shoulder, ever-present and reliable. She was his support, the reason he remained standing.

She was his _strength._

At that moment, Erik knew he couldn't keep his past from her. He had done so once before—had thought he could keep part of himself hidden from her, thought he could make her see only the bits he _wanted_ her to see.

She had pried him open, had stripped down all his defences, and made him the happiest man alive.

"When I was amongst the Afghani soldiers, I found myself an ally," he began quietly. "A man who wasn't with the mujahideen, just as I wasn't with the Red Army. He was good to me when the General got... carried away. He tended to my wounds, made sure I didn't bleed to death at night."

Christine let out a shaky breath behind him, and he felt her soft lips place a trembling kiss against the back of his neck. Knowing this was uncomfortable for her, he reached behind him to grasp her hand in his, offering her what little comfort he could give despite the chilling tale he was about to tell.

With a sigh, he continued. "The General was a paranoid man. He made the soldiers move camps often to make sure they weren't being followed. Eventually, we ended up taking refuge in a village. Khan—the man who helped me—protested against it. He didn't want any unnecessary deaths or casualties." Erik closed his eyes painfully, remembering the man's morals, his respect for humanity. His grip tightened around her hand. "He was a _good_ man, Christine."

His wife shifted closer to him, moving to sit on her legs beside him so that their positions were less awkward. He leaned into her as she slipped an arm around his back, holding him in a warm embrace. There was nothing she could do to ease his burdens, nothing she could do to erase the past, but he was grateful for her support all the same.

It made breathing a little easier.

"When we arrived, I discovered why Khan insisted against relocating. His wife and son lived in the same village." Christine let out a soft gasp beside him, and he pressed his lips together, forcing himself to continue. "It wasn't danger at every turn, Christine. We lived safely, for a while. The General couldn't make the villagers suspect any violence, so he left me alone. The colour of my skin singled me out, so I kept to myself to avoid questions. My days were empty; I spent them composing."

"Why didn't you just... leave?" Christine questioned.

He paused in his speech, contemplating her words. "Why didn't I..." he muttered, letting out a sigh. "I knew it would have put Khan in danger, since it was no secret that he helped me. That, and—well, I didn't know the way." He let out a harsh, ragged breath, pulling his hand away from hers to run it through his hair."I should have run when I had the chance. Maybe if I did, none of this would have happened."

"What..." Christine swallowed beside him before trying again. " _What_ exactly happened, Erik?"

He shut his eyes tightly, memories of the fire engulfing his mind. "The Soviet army found us one night. They attacked—set fire to every house and hut. I don't know how many they killed, but I know there were innocents among the body count." He could still remember the terror of that night—how he had woken with an uneasy feeling in his gut, how he could do nothing but watch as the flames tore down houses and burned screaming villagers...

"Khan's son was trapped in one of the burning houses, so I went in after him. I took the boy and his mother with me and hid them away for the night. And when the Soviets finally retreated and we returned, the General was furious with me." He brushed a thumb across the melted curve of his cheekbone, grimacing in disgust. "He thought I had caused this, and decided to punish me."

Christine was silent beside him, but he could feel her shake with barely controlled sobs, knew that she was quietly crying.

He let out a tired sigh. Her reaction to his tale was understandable, of course—anyone would have been appalled to hear of his experiences—but it seemed he could not tell her anything without reducing her to tears. "I'm sorry, Christine—I'll stop if you want me to—"

"What happened to him?" she whispered, pressing her mouth to his shoulder. "To Khan. What happened?"

It was an innocent question—simple and straightforward. He should have been able to recall the events of that fateful night, to give her the facts and nothing more. Everything would have been easier that way.

Instead, Erik took a shaky breath and said, "He saved me. He saved me, and I couldn't save him."

* * *

 _ **November 1980**_

Rookheeya, for all her indifference, had been strangely reluctant to see Erik go.

She had bound up his ribs—tight enough to ensure he could walk, but still restricting his breathing slightly—and had given him clear instructions to take frequent breaks to ensure he didn't collapse from too much strain. A little knapsack had been given to him as well, holding a water bottle, a compass and map of the general terrain, and a few pills to act as painkillers should his injuries strain him too much. She had fed him two more times after he had woken, insisting that he finish the broth she had made for him. Khan had muttered something about fussing and she had swatted him indignantly while Reza laughed.

It had been uplifting to see such sweetness in such a heavy time. He treasured it, surprised that for once, there was a memory from Afghanistan he wanted to keep.

The two men agreed to leave when night had fallen. Erik was dressed in Khan's shirt and slacks, and though they were slightly too large in certain places—he _was_ an uncommonly skinny man, even before he had been enlisted in the war—and spent the better part of three hours sitting with the family in their little sitting room, trying to avoid scratching at the bandages covering his face. Conversation had been stilted, at most; Erik was in no mood to make light chatter, and the married couple were not the most sociable of sorts. They had all been content to keep silence, choosing to rest from the strain of the past few days, wanting to find peace.

Reza had chosen to take the spot next to his father by the sofa, stubbornly refusing to go to bed even as he started drooping against the older man's shoulder. Khan had merely chuckled and cradled the boy to his side, letting his son curl up against him. His hair was mussed, his small hands lightly gripping at Khan's shirt.

Erik watched him silently, observing with quiet contemplation. A boy—a little boy, completely dependant on his parents. It was enlightening to see such innocence within the world, that purity existed despite the cruelty that he had been dealt with. Little boys like Reza were the reason men went to war: to protect the ones they loved...

When at last the boy could sit upright no more, Rookheeya stood and held a hand out to him, gently announcing his bedtime. Reza blinked hazel eyes confusedly up at her, accepting a kiss from his father before—to Erik's surprise—he stood and walked over to where the injured Soviet sat.

"Am I going to see you again?" he asked sleepily, looking up at Erik with half-lidded eyes. His black hair was as messy as ever, making him look younger than his eight years of age.

Erik leaned forwards, murmuring quietly, "I don't know, Reza."

Reza frowned, but was too tired to ask further questions. He simply nodded, an exhausted smile playing at his lips. Then, to Erik's shock, he scrambled into the Soviet's lap for a brief hug, his little arms wrapping around the man's neck. Erik winced—in his haste, Reza had nudged at some of his bruises—but pushed the sting aside. The boy had not upset any dressings, so there was no harm in it.

It was a simple action, but still managed to leave Erik stunned. Physical affection had never come easily to him; to this day, Christine had been the only one to hug him so freely, to kiss and love him without qualms. There were others that could be considered 'friends', he supposed, but even then contact had been reduced to handshakes and pats on the back. Only Meg, the most affectionate woman he had come to know, would choose to give him friendly hugs—and even then, they were brief and impersonal.

He had never held a child in his arms as he did in that moment—had never had the patience to tolerate children. They had always been too rash, too giggly, too innocent for his tainted hands.

Yet perhaps, after everything he had experienced, he needed a little innocence.

"Bye, Erik," the boy whispered against his neck. His body was small in Erik's arms as he fitted them around the boy, patting him on the back.

"Goodbye, Reza," he sighed, holding him for a moment more before letting the mother lead her son out of the room. Golden eyes followed the two figures: one tall and slim, the other smaller and leaning against the former for support.

But instead of seeing Khan's family, he saw his own: Christine, her lovely chestnut curls spilling down her back, hand in hand with a little boy or girl they had created. A boy with wild curls and golden eyes, who would turn and give him one last sleepy smile before following his mother to his bedroom...

He pushed the sweet picture away, knowing he could not afford to be distracted at the moment.

Khan watched his family leave, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "He's an affectionate boy," he commented, leaning back against the now empty sofa. His light scruff was beaded with a light sheen of sweat, and Erik's fingers twitched on the arm of the chair, suddenly reminded of the uncomfortable heat trapped beneath his bandages. The air was too warm to be so badly injured.

He gave a single nod, thinking of the boy. Despite all the trauma he had been through, he was still smiling, still laughing. Erik wondered if all children forgot so easily.

Rookheeya walked into the room then, the doting expression she had worn around Reza replaced by a grim one. "It's nearing midnight," she said quietly to the men. She hugged her arms to her chest.

Erik rose from his seat with a grunt, his ribs still sore and throbbing. "Yes, I should." He turned towards Khan with a questioning look, remembering the man's mention of wanting to accompany him for a short part of his journey.

Khan gave him a nod of confirmation as he stood. "I'm going to see Reza for a moment," he announced, crossing the room to where Rookheeya stood by the door. She held a hand out to his arm.

"He's asleep, Nadir," she reminded gently.

Khan looked at her for a long moment, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'd like to see him anyway." Erik watched as the man took his wife's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before leaving the room.

He met Rookheeya's gaze as they were left alone; she slowly uncrossed her arms and began to walk over to where he stood. She stopped in front of him, slender hands immediately reaching out to check his bandages, ensuring everything was properly bound and knotted. He stood still as she worked, silently observing her. The woman was tall—taller than Christine, almost the same height as her husband. Her crown reached his nose— _or what's left of it_ , he remarked bitterly—and her neatly platted hair went down to her stomach. Her grey eyes were large and downturned, framed with long lashes; her nose was long and sharp, and her lips full.

She was beautiful—one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. But where other men would appreciate her elegance, the exotic features that set her apart from any other European, Erik found himself thinking of another set of eyes. Eyes that were large but seemed to always smile, their colour the clearest, brightest blue...

"You'll be home soon," Rookheeya murmured, breaking him out of his reverie.

He blinked at her. "I wasn't—"

"Your eyes betray your emotions, Erik." She smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. Taking a breath, she grasped one of his hands in hers, holding on tightly. "Thank you," she breathed, meeting his golden eyes. "We wouldn't be here if not for you."

"I could say the same for myself," Erik said wryly, unused to this side of her. Rookheeya had always been calm and collected around him. Even when he had observed her with her husband, he had never detected an ounce of fear, a flicker of the anxiety she could now barely conceal from him. Lowering his voice, he said gently, "You make an excellent nurse."

His words had their desired effect: a small smile tugged at the edges of her lips. "An eight-year-old boy will do that to you," she affirmed, and he allowed himself a chuckle. Looking down at their clasped hands, she murmured, "Stay safe, alright?"

Drawing his hand back, he lightly placed his palm against his heart, a gesture of the Muslim _salam_ of greeting. He looked into her eyes earnestly, expressing every inch of gratitude he could towards her for caring for him, for patching him up. "I will," he promised resolutely.

Rookheeya placed her own palm over her heart, and smiled.

* * *

He couldn't shake off the sense of finality when the door had finally shut behind them.

For a long moment, he stared at the wooden home, so carefully concealed within the forest. It was small—he had only managed to build the adjoining sitting room and kitchen as well as a single room for the three of them to rest in. He thought of Reza sleeping soundly in their bed, of Rookheeya's parting kiss.

He could not help but feel that it had been their last.

"Khan," a low, melodic voice said behind him.

He turned his head, finding Erik watching him. "I have to go," he reminded quietly.

Nadir shook his head, willing himself to focus. "Of course. We should start moving."

The woods were eerily dark, the trees only allowing small glimpses of moonlight to light their path. The fallen soldiers walked quietly, used to such circumstances. The air around them was hushed; there were no sounds, no calling of an owl or hiss of a snake. Time seemed to still around them.

Nadir moved ahead, knowing that the Soviet would require more time from the sound of his laboured breaths. The compass he held in his hand pointed southwards and he followed its lead, knowing that it would lead them out of the woods. Every step he took was difficult, laden with a heaviness within his chest the further he walked from his family.

An hour must have passed before Erik called him once more, making him stop in his tracks. Long strands of dark hair whipped across his forehead as he turned and he irritably brushed them away. Rookheeya had seated him down for a haircut when he had brought them to the safe home, but she had not removed enough. He would be sure to request another trim once he returned to her.

 _If you return to her_ , a voice whispered in his mind.

Nadir gritted his teeth together and focused his hazel eyes on the taller man leaning against the bark of a tree. His thin lips were tightly pursed together, his chest heaving in careful breaths. Though his entire visage was bandaged, Nadir could clearly see his closed eyes, could see the tiredness of his frame.

The man had suffered too much.

When he had first glanced at the Soviet's scars, Nadir had been appalled. It had been brief, yes—he remembered rushing into the tent where screams were sounding from, wide eyed and alert. For two days after the fire, he had quietly disappeared to whisk his family to the safe home he had built in his spare time within the village. The other soldiers had informed him that Jalil hadn't noticed his disappearance; he found it odd, at first, but understood when he pushed his way into the tent.

There had been blood everywhere, he remembered. Blood spilt across Jalil's shirt, blood spotting the floor of the tent, blood covering the man that was stretched out on the examining table.

Nadir could not observe in detail, but he had seen enough to protest. His indignant objections earned him a few blows to the stomach which sent him coughing and sputtering, and he couldn't have done anything but leave the tent.

It was that night that he knew he had to return for Erik.

"We need to keep moving, Erik," he said, gripping the compass he held tightly.

Erik took a shaky breath, clearly struggling to breathe. "I won't be able to. Go home, Khan—I'll go on after an hour's rest."

The Afghan frowned. "You can barely walk," he pointed out incredulously, "and you want me to leave? It's suicide, man."

"I'll be fine," the taller man said between gritted teeth. "I'm grateful for all you've done for me, Khan, but the rest of the journey is mine to make. _Alone_ , _"_ he emphasised, golden eyes hard and resolved.

Nadir opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, he felt a sharp pain slice into his back. He looked down.

A blade was wedged within his chest.

The pain was loud and ringing—he could barely register his surroundings. Everything had become a blur, and he could see a dark, red dampness spreading, making his shirt stick against his skin. Hazel eyes locked onto gold, and it dawned on him that Erik was struggling to move towards him, his usually soothing timbre raised in a deafening roar.

 _"Khan_ — _no!"_

The sharp edge that had pierced through him was swiftly withdrawn and, finding his knees begin to buckle, Nadir collapsed against the ground with a ragged gasp. The trees had parted, and the moon came into view. It was beautiful.

 _"Unhand me, man_ — _Khan_ _,_ _get up!"_

He couldn't see, couldn't think—how could Erik possibly think he'd be able to stand? His legs were numb, lifeless. He couldn't move them anymore.

 _"Calm yourself, soldat_ — _hold him down, Markovic; General Vetrov is expecting him_ — _"_

 _"No_ — _Nadir!"_

The shouts were fading, now—but then again, everything was becoming faint. Breathing didn't seem a necessity, anymore. He could hardly feel the pain, could hardly part his dry lips to taste the air. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that death was coming to claim him.

An image of his son curled up against his side flashed through his mind. Reza—his Reza. Chatting animatedly to him about his day, hazel eyes bright and excited. He saw Rookheeya sitting on the other side of their boy, smiling and laughing along with the child.

She looked up at him then, her grey eyes warm and tender. Her slender hand reached out to grasp his, holding their son between them.

A faint shout of, _"Nadir!"_

He exhaled a last breath, and let death pull him into its arms.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yeah, sorry about that. This has been planned from the start.

Leave a review—let me know what you think and how you're feeling!


	20. What I Am

**A/N:** It has literally been over a month since my last update, and I'm so sorry. Essays kept piling up and with the end of term coming up, I found myself too exhausted to find time to write. But chapter 20 is finally here, so rejoice!

But if you're unsure about when I'll be posting next, do have a look at my tumblr, halfwayreal—I document most of my writing progress (among other things) on there, so you'd have a better idea of when the next chapter will be out.

Many thanks to all your reviews, favourites and follows! They never fail to motivate me.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, After The Storm, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _This ain't no sham,_

 _I am what I am._

 _I leave no time_

 _For a cynic's mind._

* * *

 ** _December — January 1980_**

They took him away. Held him under his arms—though when he reflected upon the moment, he would have realised they were far gentler than he'd expected from them—and ushered him along. It was a blend of pain and torment, both of the mind and the body. His injured limbs screamed in protest, his healing ribs aching with every jolt of a step. Their voices were a blend of rough and tired, a faint buzz of murmurs in the background of his numb mind.

"...can't believe we actually found him. The others thought he'd be long dead by now."

The language they spoke sounded harsh, almost foreign to his ears. It took him a split second to recognise the Russian dialect, his ears unused to the language after months of communicating in Farsi. It sounded strange, almost unfamiliar.

"He's the fucking Phantom, _zadrota_. Doesn't surprise me."

"He's beaten up bad, though. Wonder what the _Dukhi_ did to him."

"Who cares? Vetrov wanted him found, and we found him."

 _Who cares?_ For a moment, he had almost forgotten what it was to live as a soldier, as an _assassin:_ unaffected by death, unmoved by suffering and tragedy. No one had been able to break this shell of his hard exterior—not even his angel of a wife, whom he had sworn to be a better man for, had made him empathise with his victims...

Except for Khan.

It was unfamiliar, this mix of despair and anger within his chest. He felt hollow, almost as if a part of him had been taken away with the man's death. It confused him; he and Khan had not been entirely close, weren't family—why did he care so much?

But he did, and blood boiled within his chest in silent rage to think that the Soviets brushed Khan's death aside so easily. They were simply finishing a task, doing what they had been told to do. It was nothing out of the ordinary to kill a soldier belonging to the enemy, no matter if he was defenceless or not.

He had thought that way, once. Now, the thought of killing made him feel sick.

An inward chuckle. The irony of his position seemed laughable. Everything— _everything_ —he had once stood for disgusted him, now.

For once in his life, Erik felt as if he had truly and horrifically ruined his vocal chords. He had screamed—Jalil had brought the worst of cries from him—but no amount of physical pain could force his voice from his throat the way Khan's death did. It was as if his throat had been torn from his lungs, whisking his breath away from deep within his abdomen. His throat felt sore from misuse. He wondered if he would still be able to speak. He hadn't cared enough to try.

His legs moved forwards with a numb obedience, following the senseless orders of his brain. Everything still ached; perhaps everything would always ache. Happiness, his old life, Christine—it all seemed like a distant memory, vague and unreachable.

The locket he wore around his neck felt icy against his chest.

He hadn't bothered to give a damn about how long they'd been walking. Most of the journey was made in silence; the men who held him were slowly falling into exhaustion as the other—their leader, he assumed—walked in front of them, noiselessly guiding the way.

Their hands were slowly loosening their grip on his arm as they grew more tired. He could run if he wanted to. Pain seemed inconsequential, now—he knew he would hardly feel it, knew that it was not _possible_ when feeling had shut itself off, a barrier within his mind. He knew as well that the men were Soviet men, part of the Red Army. They had mentioned that Vetrov—their section's General—wanted him found. No doubt that they were bringing him back to camp, where he would be treated and sent home.

He knew to follow, to let them tend to his wounds and send him home to Christine. That was his goal, after all—what he had set out to do.

But still the image of Khan's last moments replayed constantly within his mind: Khan turning back to look at him, Khan's brown eyes widening in shock, Khan looking dumbly down at the knife held between his ribs, blood soaking his shirt like ink...

Nadir falling to the ground, his brown eyes frozen forever on the distant moon while all Erik could do was uselessly shout.

Following Khan's killers seemed a repulsive thought. Still, Erik knew there would be no chance to escape from the men. He was severely injured, and could hardly walk. Already he could feel exhaustion seeping into his bones, wearing him down with each heavy step. He would be useless to Rookheeya and Reza in this state. There would be no point.

So he trudged along with the others, staring blankly ahead at the covet of trees and wood, vaguely aware of the helplessness and frustration and conflicting emotions warring within his chest.

They finally reached the camp at nightfall. His sorry state had attracted the attention of the soldiers—he heard the murmurs of his comrades, shocked and asking _what_ and _why_ —but did not care enough to look up. The ground beneath them was caked with fallen leaves, and they crumpled underneath his boots. He walked, walked some more, kept walking until the hands holding him tugged at his arms, stopping him in his tracks.

A sharp inhale sounded directly in front of him, and Erik looked up. Vetrov stood before him, usual stoic demeanour in place save for the widening of his eyes. He stared lifelessly at the General whom had sent him out, whom had disliked him immensely for his snark and attitude.

He did not speak a word, and Vetrov exhaled in a rush.

"Get him medical attention," the Soviet General ordered, eyes briefly flicking to the bandages on his face before turning to address the men whom had escorted him. "Immediately."

He was ushered away to another section of the camp, where a few nurses had set up a medical tent. The interior was neat and smelt of disinfectants and cleanliness. The cot he was sat on was neatly made, the thin blankets pressed smoothly to the hard mattress.

It disgusted him.

Khan's shirt was cut away from his chest, and then there were softer, smoother hands pressing and prodding at the mess on his skin. _The nurses_ , he vaguely realised as he heard their sharp gasps and moans of shock at his bruises. He sat still as they worked at his wounds, allowed them to push him to lie on his back when they did, let them peel away the bandages covering his face. Some left the room at that, too nauseous to continue to work on him, leaving a few strong-stomached women attending to his care.

"Your scars have been cleaned," one of them, a woman with a soft voice, observed gently. "Did you tend to it yourself?"

 _No,_ he thought blankly. _The woman who nursed me back to health was the wife of a soldier your men killed_.

Her expression was soft and clear, her blue eyes wide and full of sympathy. She had dark hair, pinned up neatly so she could better work. It was a painful reminder of Christine, this woman who wanted to understand, to comfort him and his black mind. But Christine's eyes were rich cobalt where hers were a sky blue, and her hair was flat where Christine's was curly.

He both longed and feared to return to his wife. Christine was strong, he knew, but was also a delicate woman. This nurse had been assigned to care for him; Christine had chosen to marry him. The nurse had met him after his scars, whereas Christine knew nothing other than his perfect appearance. The nurse was used to the ghastly injuries of war; Christine had never been exposed to violence in her life. Would she still accept him, still love him if he looked like this? Doubt translated into hopelessness. The months that had been spent thinking of her seemed a waste, now.

The nurse was still sitting by his side, waiting patiently for an answer. When he remained unresponsive, the woman cleared her throat awkwardly and stood. "You must give your wounds time to heal. Rest, _soldat_. I'll come by later." She left the room with a brisk pace to her steps, clearly hastening to move away from his presence.

She didn't return until nightfall.

Three days he had been here, three nights he had spent in the hard cot. He hardly moved from his position, knowing not to strain himself. Every instinct within him pushed him towards survival, towards healing as quickly as he could, and he obeyed obediently even when he found himself questioning why he should bother to continue living in the first place. The hours passed seamlessly by; he hardly noticed the sun setting. Time ceased to matter.

Occasionally, his mind wandered back to thoughts of Khan. He wondered if the man's body was still lying in that open enclosure within the forest, blank hazel eyes staring up at the clear parting of trees to the sky. He wondered how Rookheeya had reacted, wondered if she even knew what befell her husband. If Reza had cried upon learning that his father would never return to his side. An overwhelming urge to take them with him, to accompany them to the city and see that they board the next flight out of Afghanistan flamed within his mind. Before Khan's death, all he had wanted was to return to Christine. It seemed inconsequential, now. Christine was safe, he knew; Christine could wait.

The man he was before wouldn't have thought twice about leaving Khan's family in the woods. The boy he used to be was motivated by survival, and the man he had become was driven by his love for Christine. Every thought of his had revolved around her; she was his world and his heart, his sole reason to live.

Now, even the thought of returning to her when the remaining Khans had no means of protection sickened him.

His days became a tireless routine of silent contemplation and demotivation. Every passing hour seemed to seep life from his bones, even as his body began to heal. The nurses came in to check on him, replacing his bandages and applying antiseptics to his slowly closing wounds. His bruises were not visible, anymore; his broken ribs did not constrain his breathing. The thin bandage covering his face was unbearably hot in the humid weather, and sometimes he would tear it off in irritation. Fewer nurses ventured into his partition whenever he did so, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

His locket remained unopened by the stool beside his bed.

Vetrov visited thrice in his admission into medical care. The first time was to check on his condition. The second was to question him about the mujahideen, only to leave when he refused to speak. The third was to thank him for the collection of blueprints and drafted plans he had the nurses deliver to the General's tent.

He did not return after that.

It was after the fourth week that they finally allowed him to venture outside unaccompanied—not that they could have stopped him if he wanted to leave—and he immediately took the opportunity to slip into the woods. They would surely notice his absence, he knew, but he could not bring himself to care. He could walk fairly quickly, now, and was armed with his prized pistol. It seemed almost hysterical how he had begun to shun the idea of murder; he would not hesitate to kill any Afghan soldier who crossed his path, now.

Walking briskly and discreetly, he purposefully navigated his way through the forest. The same compass Rookheeya had given him was sitting in his palm, needle jerking with every step he took. The walk would not be long, he knew, but already he was growing impatient.

At long last, he came across the house Khan had built. It was still standing, a wooden structure amongst a sea of green and brown, untouched and unblemished. Freshly fallen leaves covered the ground where the front door was, suggesting that the door had not been opened in a while.

Golden eyes narrowed. With a cat-like grace, the former assassin crept to the side where the door was, laying a palm on the wooden surface. He remained silent, listening for any sign of movement, for any sign of life within the house.

There was none.

Rookheeya and Reza were not inside, which meant that they had escaped, or...

Or that they had been found.

He shoved the door open and stepped in. The pistol was cocked and ready in his hand.

It was dark inside, with no warm candles to light the home. Where others would have needed a torch, however, Erik was able to adjust perfectly to the darkness. The chairs were stacked towards the side, the table bare. Golden eyes scanned the small home, noting the coverlet Rookheeya had given to him folded neatly on a chair propped against the wall. The bed had been stripped down when he walked into the room, leaving only a bare makeshift mattress. Dust covered the floor. Everything seemed undisturbed, untouched.

A piece of parchment was perched on the table where the kitchen once was. He moved towards it with light steps and reached long fingers out to grasp at the folded paper. Smoothening it out, Erik strapped his pistol into the holster by his waist and began to read.

 _Erik,_

 _I hope that you're alive, and that you find this letter. I found Nadir. I heard your screams last night. I wish I had gotten there sooner, but by the time I did, he was already dead... He's buried not far from where I found him._

 _I've taken Reza with me. You know of our plan; I don't need to repeat it in writing. It's not safe for him here anymore._

 _Perhaps one day after the war we will return. But for now, I will not risk his life by staying here any longer._

 _I hope you're well, Erik, and I appreciate all you have done for us. But whatever you do, please do not follow us. _

_I have lost my husband. I will not lose my son, as well._

The letter bore no signature, but Rookheeya's imprint on it was undeniable. She had left within a day of her husband's death, sweeping the little house clean and whisking her son away. Rookheeya, the woman whom had mistrusted him since the beginning, whom had doubted him even when he had saved her son. She was a stoic woman, headstrong in her quietness, firm and suspicious and nothing like her husband. He did not doubt that she would hesitate to kill anyone who posed a threat to her family.

He clenched the letter in his fist, frustration boiling in his chest. For days, he had resolved to follow Khan's family. He had focused all his efforts on healing so he could be of better use to them, so he could act as their protector once more. His skills would be needed to hide them away. He would be able to focus his efforts on repaying the man who had given his life for him.

He had given himself a _purpose_.

Now, with the letter in hand, he knew he wasn't needed. Of course she would whisk her son away, even without her husband there to guide her; of course she would be capable of doing it herself.

Her words clearly reflected that she did not need his protection, as he thought she would.

With the crumpled letter in hand, he made his way back to the camp.

The flurry of activity had not changed since he had left. He had been gone for a few hours, but the same men were still sitting by the firewood, repairing boots and guns and clothing. A few tired soldiers stood towards the side, nursing tumblers and tending to small wounds. The lieutenants were barking orders at the younger ones, ordering them to fetch more wood or patrol the area. The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, their base camp a circle of sweaty men.

Silently, Erik navigated through the shadows of tents and trees, inconspicuously moving through the camp. He knew that the soldiers took pity on him, just as the nurses did. They were gruff whenever he was in sight, and their fear for him rendered them silent. He would not want to encounter them today.

The medical tent was stifling as always. He approached it dispiritedly, quiet even as he walked with heavy steps. He was at loathe to return, but couldn't think of anywhere else to go. Quiet contemplation in the woods by himself that had once been an appealing idea was now strangely revolting. He did not want to perch by a tree and compose, not when Khan had been killed within the same forest.

It was not empty when he discreetly entered. Moving silently, golden eyes caught sight of the two women standing by the corner of the tent, speaking in hushed tones. He glanced towards his cot; the curtains around it were still drawn, shielding his area from view. They had not bothered to check on him in all the time he had been gone.

His sharp ears picked out their words, and he listened closely.

"...almost healed. He will be ready to travel home soon."

"They don't want him in the field?"

"Vetrov is reluctant to let him go, but with the way he's progressing the General might have to. The man we're nursing isn't the Phantom anymore."

"Does he know about this?"

"Who—our patient?"

"Yes."

"No, he doesn't; the General's still pushing for the KGB to keep him, so there's a chance that he will rejoin the army when he's fully healed. But the man's been through hell and back, Katya. I don't think it would be healthy for him to continue."

"But he needs to know—"

Both women broke off at the sound of the tent flap, turning quickly to see the fleeting sight of a figure whisking out of the tent. One hurried towards the opening flaps, peering out towards the camp. Everyone was going about as normal; there was no sign of any disturbance. She turned and looked back at her companion, before she caught sight of the empty cot revealed behind the drawn curtain.

Her blue eyes widened, and she met the worried gaze of her companion.

Their Phantom patient had surely heard every word they had exchanged.

Erik strode through the camp, fists clenched by his side and forehead creased beneath his bandages, long legs moving swiftly towards the General's tent. His teeth clenched in anger, the bandage sticking to his face from the sweltering heat. How _dare_ they even think about what would become of him without consulting him, without mentioning it to him first? His employment had always been under _his_ conditions—to the most extent.

But now they thought him incapable of deciding for himself because he had been injured _, tortured_ —all for the Soviet cause?

His golden eyes were alight with blind fury. Upon seeing the tent, he walked in briskly without waiting to be invited in.

The man in question whirled around at the sudden intrusion, a frown marking his features. "I thought I had made it clear that I was to be left alone," he barked.

"How rude of me," Erik snarled. "Shall I knock next time? Perhaps you should invest in a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. It would certainly keep unwanted visitors out."

Vetrov balked in recognition as the voice lingered in the air. The nurses had informed him of the former captive's silence, evident in the way the man's usually smooth voice held a raspy tone, rough from disuse. It was still deep and melodic, still holding the hypnotic quality that dazed his victims moments before he killed them.

"Destler," Vetrov sighed, setting the paperwork he had been holding down. "Good to see you walking again."

"I am not a cripple, Vetrov," the other man snapped.

"I never mentioned that."

The taller man pursed his thin lips before speaking once more. "There are many things you didn't mention, Vetrov. My dismissal being one of them." He glared at the General, staring him down as he had done to his countless victims.

Vetrov closed his eyes tiredly, letting out another sigh. "Who told you?"

"Nobody _told_ me. Have you forgotten who I am, Vetrov? My face might be disfigured beyond compare, but this has _not_ affected my hearing."

The General shifted uncomfortably on one foot. "So it seems."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Indeed. Now tell me what you know, Vetrov."

The man paused hesitantly for a moment before opening his mouth to speak. "Some have wondered if your," —his eyes flickered to the bandages covering Erik's face— _"injury_ would affect your position. Your anonymity would be compromised. It would make you an easy target." He looked away warily. "The KGB don't want to let you go, however. You will likely still hold your position, regardless of your injury..."

Erik stopped listening as the General continued, explaining what would become of him. Though he had established his authority among the Soviet ranks as well as in the KGB, he was forced to admit that ultimately, the government's decisions overruled his. He had always been forced to submit under the most dire of circumstances, living under the rule of authoritarians disguising themselves through socialism. Listening to Vetrov tell him what his fate would be, how he would be handled once more...

"I don't want it," he said abruptly.

Vetrov immediately cut himself off, staring at the other man in shock. "Excuse me?"

"I don't want it," Erik repeated clearly. "Let them dismiss me. They wanted to, anyway."

Vetrov stared at him incredulously. "It was a consideration, but was overruled! They want you to return to the field, but only when you are ready, of course. You'll be sent back to the USSR and continue your work after a few months—"

"No," Erik said sharply, turning to glare at the man. "Tell them no. I'm done."

"They won't let you just leave."

"They won't be able to stop me."

"Destler, don't be stupid. Your life is at stake. Your wife—"

Golden eyes narrowed into slits at the mention of Christine. "Don't," he hissed, stepping forwards threateningly, "bring my wife into this."

For a moment, something akin to fear seemed to flicker in Vetrov's eyes. He stepped back warily, but did not drop his gaze. "You know what they're capable of, Destler," he reminded quietly.

"And they know what _I'm_ capable of." Erik stepped away stoically. "I am boarding the next helicopter back, and I'm resigning my services from the government. If they refuse my resignation, I will disappear. They will not make me kill for them again." He moved towards the front of the tent, but stopped in his tracks for a moment. Turning his head to the side, he said in quiet resolution, "I've slaved for the country long enough, Vetrov. Make sure the KGB are aware of that."

That night, he and a few other injured soldiers were driven to the Soviet base in the capital city.

The next day, he boarded the helicopter that would bring him back to the Soviet Union.

A few hours later, he descended from the chopper, finding himself on Soviet soil once more.

Christine was waiting for him when he stepped into the airport.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

Christine held Erik for a long time after he had told her everything that had happened. She was stupid to think that he hadn't yet revealed everything to her, that physical abuse had been the only source of his pain. She should have _known._ She, who had fought through thick and thin with him, who had cried and screamed and despaired over him only to be blessed with the most beautiful, encompassing feeling she had ever known—she should have seen that he had lost so much more than his face and his pride.

He lamented over his face, lamented over the wrongs that he had done and had been done to him, but there had always been something that didn't make sense, something that told her there must be _more_ to his overwhelming depression.

It all made sense now.

Her heart ached to listen to him speak. She had never met this Nadir Khan, but felt herself mourning his loss nonetheless, felt herself shaking in despair and gratitude for all the sacrifices he had made for her husband. It was horrific enough to learn of what had truly taken place for Erik to earn his disfigurement, his scars—but she had not been prepared for the rise of emotion within Erik's lowered voice when he had spoken of the man.

Nadir Khan might have known her husband for a short amount of time, but she could clearly hear the respect and pain Erik's voice held as he talked about his friend.

His _friend_.

She wondered if he realised that what he shared with the man had been friendship. Erik, her distrusting, suspicious, aloof husband, had formed a friendship with a soldier in the enemy's lines. He had given this man— _Nadir Khan_ —his trust, had saved his family, had probably shared moments of quiet comfort with a companion by his side. Her husband was a man hardened by the violence of his past. She knew how difficult it must have been to trust, to share.

Only to have his quiet companion die before his eyes, killed by his own men.

Of _course_ he had been so distant when he had first returned to her.

Christine let him lean against her, draping an arm around his shoulders and the other around his chest. Erik sat back on his heels while she knelt on the bed, knees sinking softly into the mattress beneath them. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her forehead gently pressed against the side of his head. It was only morning, but she could feel the tiredness in his frame as he let himself unfold against her.

He was exhausted. Run down by the experience of war, heavy from the loss that came with death. All that passion she had known—that contained energy he held whilst composing, that quiet shine in golden eyes whenever they sang together, that mad rush of vigour when he sketched and designed and wrote.

She knew there was nothing she could say to rid him of his pain. There was nothing she could do to bring Nadir Khan back, no way she could undo the damage that had been inflicted on her husband's face and body.

But she was _damned_ if she didn't try to let him live once more.

She pressed a kiss to the side of his forehead, breathing in his scent deeply. She would stay here with him for as long as he wished.

He did not move for the longest time, content to tiredly slump against her, let her stroke his hair and press kisses to the side of his head. They were both content to bask in silence, Christine choosing to listen to his breathing—at first shaky and uncontrolled, little gasps of air, before it slowly evened out into long, steady breaths.

Eventually, Erik shifted beneath her. She loosened her hold on him, letting him slide his legs to the side of the bed and upright. His back was to her as he reached for the drawer of his bedside table, rummaging through it. After she had pleasured him, she remembered falling asleep in his arms, content to feel the ridges of his bare chest and shoulders beneath her fingers. He must have risen in the night when she was sleeping to clothe himself. While she wished he had been comfortable enough to sleep with his naked body pressed against her, she was still relieved to note that he had not felt compelled to hide his face from her once more.

She leaned forwards, reaching an arm out to trace his spine. He stilled at her touch at first and she stilled her wandering fingers, not wanting to cause him any discomfort.

But after a moment, all the tension seemed to leave his body as he let out a long sigh. It sounded almost relieved.

Long fingers finally found what he had been looking for, and with a push of a hand, the drawer was shut once more. His head was bowed, his golden eyes surely trained on the object he now held in hand. It took all of her control to restrain herself from crawling to sit beside him and peek at what he was holding, but she forced herself to practice patience. He would show her when he was ready.

When he finally turned, her eyes latched onto the golden locket gently resting on his palm. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Erik," Christine breathed, staring at the locket, "that's the—"

"Yes," Erik murmured, lithe thumb delicately brushing over the intricate design. She watched as he twisted it in hand to press down on a little latch. A little _click_ sounded in the air as the little trinket snapped open. "You gave this to me for our first New Years Celebration together."

"I'd forgotten," she said softly, cobalt eyes taking in the faint hint of engraving upon the cool metal. It seemed like an eternity ago when she had first caught sight of it, sitting forgotten in the corner of an empty shop window. Scooting closer to him, she gazed down at the small object, remembering how taken she had been by it. There had been no doubt in her mind that it would have suited her tall lover, and she had immediately purchased it, resolving to give it to him, a token of appreciation for giving her his love.

Three years and a wedding later had made the small gift seen small compared to all the moments they had shared. She had never known that he had kept it for so long. She accepted the chain when he silently offered it to her. Carefully, she examined the two images: one a portrait of her, captured in a middle of a laugh, the other of them, arms around each other, both smiling at the camera.

"I fitted the photographs in before leaving for the war," he murmured as she traced the photograph of them with her thumb, the creases in her forehead softening. "I thought I had lost it for a while, but Khan kept it for me..."

Nadir Khan, once more proving to be an honest man. Lifting her head, she gazed at him reverently, conveying all the love she held for him in her cobalt eyes. "I have so much to thank him for," she said softly.

A dark shadow passed across Erik's face, and he turned away. "If only he was alive to hear it," he said bitterly. The right side of his face was barely visible, a painful reminder of everything he had endured.

She kept herself from reaching out, recognising when he did not want to be touched. Instead, she said quietly, "It wasn't your fault, Erik."

"Like hell it wasn't," he snapped. Startled, she watched dumbly as he rose from the bed, long fingers grasping at his hair. His voice was a rough growl, the disfigured side of his face appearing more twisted and deranged than usual in his anger. "It's because of me he's dead! It's because of me that his son doesn't have a father! They _took me in_ , Christine." A guttural sound left his throat as he lashed out at the small bedside lamp. She hitched a gasp as it shattered to the floor. "Those _fools_ took me in when they _knew_ the risk of doing such a thing."

Christine was silent through his tirade, watching him with wide, pained eyes. Never had she seen him lose control like this; never had he been so unrestrained in his fury. An underlying grief traced his every bone, evident in his ravaged voice, his hurting eyes. There was no calming him in this mood, she knew. She would not reach out for him, fearing that it would surely cause further harm than comfort.

So she watched as he ripped open the drawer with a strangled yell, sending his belongings scattering to the floor. She tried not to flinch as his hand lashed out at the books and brochures perched on their window seat, too deranged to notice them thunk against the ground. Everything he could find, every scholarly object, every household item within the room reminded him of all the simplicities Nadir Khan would never know again, of every base, trivial thing he had lost in death.

When at last he could find nothing else to destroy, Erik sunk to his knees, his back to her once more. His head bowed, his shoulders hunched. He held himself still, but Christine could see the slight tremble of his form, the shakiness of his breaths. She rose from her spot on the bed with unsteady legs, her own breathing uneven, still shocked at his burst of anger. She approached him slowly, manoeuvring around the fallen objects scattered on the floor, careful not to step on shards of broken glass.

Erik let out a harsh breath when she knelt in front of him. "I'm sorry," he said immediately. He was trying not to look at her, golden gaze darting away to stare at the floor. Her heart ached at the realisation that he felt ashamed at what she had just witnessed. "Christine, I'm sorry. I'll replace everything—don't worry about cleaning up—"

"Ssh," she hushed quietly, willing herself not to fall apart from the humiliation in his tone. Brushing at the hair covering his eyes, she said soothingly, "It's alright, Erik. It's okay. Don't think about that right now." When he did not respond, she glanced at the drawer, noting how it still hung off the hinges. "The drawer's not broken," she supplied, hoping that he would be relieved that some things were still salvageable. "And your watch is still working. See? It's all fine—we can fix it, Erik, don't worry—"

He laughed hollowly shook his head, clearly seeing through her vain attempts to cheer him up. "How can you stay with me?" he asked quietly, and she immediately shut her mouth. "I'm volatile, I'm disfigured. A deranged, unstable man who loves you with a violence I can't contain." He turned his head, truly seeing all the destruction he had caused in the room. The curtains were ripped, the pillows torn apart, his little possessions and trinkets—black ribbon, a glove, a ring—carelessly strewn across the floor. "I'm not good for you," he concluded, almost inaudibly.

Christine could bear it no longer; she reached out and grabbed his chin, gentle but firm in her actions. "Erik," she said sternly, forcing him to look at her. "You are _more_ than good enough for me," she insisted, cobalt eyes wide and true, pleading for him to believe her words. "It's _me_ who doesn't deserve _you_."

He let out a snort of laughter. "Of _course_ you don't," he said sarcastically, and she felt her face fall. "Why would you be worthy of someone who destroys everything they have?"

His golden eyes were so beautifully forlorn, so bitter with rejection and self-hatred. She had thought that their step into intimacy last night would have shattered the cracks of his despair, had been relieved when he revealed the experiences he had kept hidden from her. But looking at him now, she wondered. Would it always be like this? Would they always take a step forward, only for him to pull away? Would she never see him smile again, hear his gorgeous timbre raised in laughter?

Would he never know happiness again?

Silence hung in the air, thick and heavy. She yearned to speak to him, but did not know what to say. One wrong word and he would withdraw into himself, unreachable and untouchable. Oh, Erik—her Erik. How could she begin to guide him out of his darkness, to show him that he could _create_ —

Her eyes widened with realisation, and she turned to face him, curls spilling down her back. He had shifted so she could not see most of the disfigured side of his face, his jaw set and lips pressed together. Her heart softened at the sight, and a delicate hand reached out to comb through his sparse locks.

Her touch had its desired effect; golden eyes darted up to meet blue, guarded and vulnerable. Her breath caught at the sight of him, so open yet restrained, careful yet pleading.

Gently, she unfolded her legs and rose to her feet, guiding him along. Husband and wife stood facing each other for a moment, each holding the other's gaze. He was so much taller than her; her crown could only reach his chin.

Then, with a shaky smile, Christine closed a hand around his, intertwining their fingers together.

He followed when she led them out of the room.

It seemed like her heart would not stop its incessant thudding. She swallowed back her nervousness as she walked, Erik's hand firmly held in hers. It was dangerous territory, she knew. He had not stepped foot inside the room since he had come home, had not shown any inclination that he could hear notes being played in his head. Still, she wondered if he still held that passion inside him—that _need_ to soar within the stream of a melody...

She felt his grip on her hand tighten when he realised where she was leading them. Her breath held, she turned her head to catch his eye, noting the warning signs in his posture. His entire stance had stiffened, his golden eyes flashing warningly.

A hesitant, slightly encouraging smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Everything was still perfectly in place when they entered the room. The piano cut a glorious sight, standing proudly in the middle of the room, the very spot Erik had planned for it to be put. A cushioned stool was placed in front of it, invitingly tempting in its simple grandeur. Various instruments were arranged around the room: his treasured violin, sitting in its case against the wall; the larger cello next to it, magnificent and proud. A study desk was placed in the corner, volumes of manuscripts and folders arranged neatly by Christine's hand. Light shone through the large window encompassing the opposite wall, making his instruments gleam and shine.

"It's a little dusty," she observed apologetically, noting the light sheen of grey covering the music stands.

"It's magnificent," he murmured behind her.

She was about to turn to face him, struck by the sudden softness to his tone, but Erik had already let go of her hand to approach the grand piano sitting in the centre of the room. She lingered behind, watching as he stopped in front of his beloved instrument. Long fingers reached out, caressing the instrument with the lightest of touches.

"Play something, Erik," she said softly. His head snapped up to look at her, his eyes startled and caught off guard. The hint of a smile began to tug at her lips, recognising his slow pull into music once more. With small steps, she crossed the room to eventually stop in front of him. A delicate hand reached out to cover his own, steadily guiding his fingers to the piano lid. He let out a shaky breath, and she nodded encouragingly.

Slowly, he lowered himself onto the bench. She could see the tenseness in his frame as he adjusted himself to a comfortable position, shifting and pulling in the seat until he was satisfied. Lithe fingers reached out to push the lid up, revealing the black and white keys to his gaze. His fingers lingered over the keys, uncertain.

A huge shudder ran through him at the ring of a single note, clear and pure in tone and sound. It lingered in the air, the first breach of music he had exposed himself to since returning from the war. Christine felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of him; how his entire frame shook, his eyes sliding shut at the sound of a single note, his lips parting in bliss.

Then, as if a dam had been broken, he launched into a song, filling the air with music once more.

Every stiff bone, every tense muscle had relaxed, his joints loosening as an indescribable _calm_ swept through him. The power of his music struck her, and Christine found herself utterly captivated by the despair, the grace—the _beauty_ of his song, a flowing ballad of emotion. Every note was perfectly played, every chord sustained with a mastery she could never hope to possess.

She watched him, this glorious man who called himself her husband, and listened. Listened to the skilful way he weaved this enchanting melody into the air, how he could breathe life into every cadence of song, every rise and fall and _rush_ of song. Her eyes slid closed—and flew open once more at the sound of his voice.

She would never forget how she felt when she had first heard his voice. It had been—and perhaps would always be—the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. His speaking voice was already a wonder; there could never be anyone who wasn't affected by the strange melodic power of his unmistakable tone, singular and distinguished. But when he _sang_ —oh, Christine could never have anticipated it.

The first time he had sung for her, they had been alone. It was after their third date together, after he had walked her home. Meg had not been in the flat—they had shared one at the time—and Christine had begged him to stay, if only for a moment. They had found themselves in a deep discussion regarding the most recent production of Shostakovich's _Lady Macbeth_ , and in a moment of heated debate she heard the most glorious sound. Her arguments fell silent as he skilfully wove through Zinoviy's number, voice rising and falling with a golden tone too rich to be called clear, too ardent to be called smooth. When he sang, she remembered feeling gripped by every lyric he brought to life, high on his passion and heated gaze.

The same feeling of euphoria seized her now, listening to his fingers weave melodies, to his voice create wonders. His head raised, eyes darting up to meet hers as he sang, and she soared with him. There was no breaking his gaze, she knew. She could not look away, held in place by his music, and she watched him come to life again.

And when it finally ended, the music falling with a gentle close, there was only a tender warmth in his eyes.

"I love you," he said gently, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "I love you, Christine."

She leaned down to catch his lips with hers, kissing him softly, adoringly, before pulling back and breathing against his lips, "As I love you."

* * *

From then, everything seemed to change.

Their day had been spent in each other's company, in the music room. Erik had allowed himself to compose, weaving exquisite melodies from the piano, the violin, the guitar. They sang together as they often did before, and Christine couldn't stop smiling. She couldn't remember a time when she had been more happy.

Erik began to work again. He composed, he designed, he drew. He indulged in all the pleasures he had once undertaken, coming up with vast sketches of fountains and monuments and buildings. The desire to _create_ flowed through his veins once more, and he lost himself within it, his mind a clockwork whirring with endless possibilities.

It was as if a dam had broken loose. Every pent up desire to immerse himself in his art flowed through his veins, roaring in its intensity of neglect. Days of moping around the flat and his mind was incensed, his intelligence offended. Erik found himself gripped by every longing feeling to drive himself forward once more and buried himself within it, solacing in the familiarity of music and architecture and art.

And when he tired of creating, he read. He allowed himself to tear through volumes of books, his deprived mind hungry and eager to devour every missed author, every new thesis published by theorists. He read and read and when there was nothing else to read, he returned to his music and blueprints and sketches.

There was a time when he'd had to separate his work, had to retire to the dank underground tunnels where he had holed up his secret office in order to pore through journals and newspaper clippings, always fishing for information on his targets, always prying. It felt liberating to sit by his desk in his study, surrounded by his instruments and books and home and _Christine_ as he leafed through articles for the sole purpose of rejuvenating his mind. Keeping up with the news was no longer an obligation, now—he could easily set his work aside if he wished. His office would probably remain undiscovered forever, but he found that he did not care much for it; the room underground and the files of dead men it held could rot for all he cared.

He would not be venturing down into that darkness again.

It was when Christine started cleaning out the old clothes in her cupboard that he dared to approach his own. He waited for a day when she wasn't at home—she had been given a vacation week recently, allowing her to spend more time with him—before he slowly approached the hidden latch at the bottom of his cupboard, and flicked it open.

Everything was just as he left it. He had never told Christine about it—nor did she ever inquire—and would never have contemplated doing so. He reached into the small alcove with a blank expression, reaching until the faint hint of fabric brushed at his fingertips.

Carefully, he pulled out the mass of black material and sat back on his heels.

The suit he fashioned for The Phantom seemed small and unthreatening now that it lay on his lap. The fabric was slightly stiff from disuse, no longer stretching when he tugged at it. The midnight black material now shone with a light sheen of grey, dust settling from its months spent hidden in his cupboard, silent and forgotten.

Mindfully, he set the suit aside before reaching in once more, this time withdrawing the weapons he had used. A few pistols, a smoke bomb, a swiss army knife.

His lasso.

The rope felt thin and compliant as he held it in hand. It was limp, no longer the feral serpent it had once been, always poised and ready to strike its next victim.

No; now it was simply a long coil of thick string, harmless as it dangled from his fingertips. This rope, that he had used to kill countless victims with, branding them with a faint red scar around their throats...

It had no use to him now.

He set it aside by his weapons and suit, a pile of unwanted possessions hidden in a corner. The instruments that had plagued his mind with nightmares and guilt, the very tools that had turned him into an unfeeling, murdering legend.

The Phantom would kill no more.

He would destroy them, he decided. Burn them with firewood until they dissolved into ash, harmless and easily swept away by the wind. There would be no more trace of the KGB within their home—no more hints of the government or the army or the war linked to his name.

No more deathswould be associated with his title.

Resolving to dispose of the items immediately, Erik moved to stand, before he froze. No, there was something he was missing; something painfully obvious, still within the vicinity of the alcove...

He reached into the secret compartment once more, and pulled out a mask.

It stared up at him, black and full-faced and emotionlessly menacing. This mask: the trademark of The Phantom, the last thing his victims saw before he silenced them forever.

It was just as harmless as his other instruments of death.

And yet, he could not seem to throw it aside as he did with the others. An idea began to form in his mind, one that would allow him to venture out in public without exposing his disfigurement, a cool slab of porcelain over the horror of his face...

 _"What do you think of next season's production?"_

 _"Hm?"_

 _"Of Romeo and Juliet. Anton's made some changes to the costumes."_

 _"Nothing too impressive."_

 _"I like the concept behind it. That Romeo hides among the Capulets, wearing a mask to conceal his identity."_

 _"I'd think that would make him look more suspicious."_

 _"Erik, it's an opera. Directors can take some artistic license."_

 _"Hm. I'd have thought Anton would want his actors to convey their emotions through their facial expressions."_

 _"He does, which is why the costume department came up with the half mask. It's on the front of the programme_ — _I think it looks incredible."_

A half mask.

There would be questions, he knew, but there would always be questions. Questions would follow him for the rest of his life, with every curious babbler nosing into his business, wanting to know the secret of his face. The bandages would scour him pity and compassion, with ladies wincing in sympathy and men nodding in understanding. It would be more sensible, he knew, to keep using the bandages—it would bring about more questions.

And it would reinforce the idea that he had been a victim.

But the promise of a mask, impassive and dignified and perfectly sculpted to his face. Not black, as his Phantom mask had been, but a gleaming white, clean and vivid against the crisp black of his evening dress—white, the colour of beginnings, of light...

A mockery of the government, to those who knew his secret. It would give him a semblance of control again.

Perhaps a mask would prove to be of some use, after all.

* * *

Russian translations:

 _zadrota_ —slang for 'idiot' or 'moron'

 _soldat_ —soldier

 **A/N:** I mean... he had to get the mask _somehow_ , right?

There were no particular songs I had in mind when Erik (finally!) plays his music, but I did listen to a few to get me in the mood:

 _Take Me Away_ — sung live by Hadley Fraser & accompanied by Scott Alan. The way Hadley plays it is so soothing, and when his voice rises in the climax I stop breathing.

The beginning of _Maria_ (West Side Story) and _Move On_ (Sunday in the Park with George) — both sung by Julian Ovenden. If you haven't listened to this man sing, I suggest you do. He's got a beautiful tenor, this silken, gorgeous voice that gives me shivers.

Some elements of the three songs, I thought, captured the mood I was trying to convey here, particularly the swell— _the rush that music brings_ , ha—of instruments and voice. But Erik wouldn't sing these kind of songs, I think. Plus, Western culture, including music, was kinda censored by the government at this time in Russia, so.

And if I don't post until after the holidays, then I wish you all the loveliest Christmas and a Happy New Year!


	21. Fairest Sun

**A/N:** Wooh! This took a lot of time (I procrastinated _way_ too much on this, I'm so sorry) and effort, and there was a _lot_ of swearing involved in the writing process of this chapter. I didn't realise how unpracticed I was at writing happy scenes until I started on this chapter—ATS has been so full of sadness that the mere concept of writing out joy seems foreign to me now!

I'm sorry for how long this took; some pressing issues came out that rendered me quite out of sorts, for a while. 'Emotionally compromised', to quote Star Trek. But, it's finally out. I hope you all had a safe and happy Christmas and New Years, anyway!

Of course, thank you all so much for your reviews, follows and favourites. I would never have gotten this far without your support.

We're almost to the end, now; two more chapters and that's it! Music and inspiration are at the end of the chapter. Also, I've been waiting to write out these lyrics for the longest time—it feels so fulfilling to finally do it.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Not With Haste, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _So as we walked through fields of green,_

 _Was the fairest sun I'd ever seen._

* * *

 _ **May 1979**_

Today was the day.

Standing in front of the mirror, clad in a silk gown of the brightest white, Christine could hardly believe that she was getting married. Every detail, every moment of her entire life had been devoted to planning for this day. She had dreamed of a perfect wedding as a little girl, from the trail of her dress to the cake at her reception.

For some reason, she had never dreamed of the perfect husband. But as she stood staring at herself, cheeks painted a light pink and cobalt eyes wide and excited, she couldn't be more grateful to have found the love of her life.

Erik had been firm on a small gathering, and though she initially protested—she had held the image of a large wedding reception for the longest time—she remembered that ultimately, there were not many people she wanted to invite, anyway. They were both private people, with small social circles—or, well, _she_ had a small social circle, while Erik's only social connection rested with her, and occasionally Anton—so it would make sense that their wedding would be an intimate affair.

Her breath caught at the thought of it. Their _wedding_.

She was familiar with Western wedding customs being conducted by the church instead of the state—many of the ballet rats had sighed and gushed over the romance of it all; the splendour of a religious monument, the sacred vows binding husband to wife—but she could hardly care less. The Soviet Union, being a communist state, did not condone religion, but she could see no difference between getting married under the watch of God or the state.

As long as she would be able to call herself Erik's wife, and he her husband, she would be happy.

"Christine Destler," she said to herself, a flutter going through her stomach at the sound of her new name.

it sounded _right_.

It was a shame that she would have to take Erik's false name, but his position could not be compromised. The government were unaware of his true name, and he wanted them to maintain that belief; there was no need for them to have any more of a hold on him than they already did. It would be simple to retake his original sirname should he have to escape the country—freedom to take his true name outside the suffocating borders of the KGB.

Agreeing to marry was already a risk in itself; she would be an easy target for his enemies. Erik had warned her of the consequences of being married to him: constant secrecy, complying to the government's wishes, her guaranteed silence for their safety. She could never confide in her closest friends about her worries, always wonder how it would feel to travel without any concerns that her husband might be called back to assassinate another man. They would never live a life of a normal married couple.

Still, Christine could not regret her decision to share the rest of her life with him, no matter the consequences that came with it.

"Christine Devereux," she tested, teasing at the life they could have led. A distant pang of regret sang within her heart; it fell more easily from her lips than 'Destler' did.

Another secret she would need to keep. At least she would not need to pretend in front of Erik.

Brushing the inconvenience away, Christine focused on her image in the mirror. The dress* she now wore was a sleek, classic white. Lace covered her arms, clinging to her pale skin delicately. The neckline was not low, but not too modest, ending just above her decolletage, and her shoulders and collarbone were bare. White fabric fell down her hips, gathering as a silken trail on the floor. Her cobalt eyes were lightly lined, her lips painted a pale pink. A rosy blush coloured her cheeks, giving her complexion a soft glow.

Long, dark tresses were spilling down her shoulders, the other half gathered by the back of her head and twisted elegantly. Meg had initially wanted a classic updo, but Christine had insisted on leaving at least _some_ of her hair down. After all, Erik made no secret of how much he loved her hair loose.

It would not be a long service. All they needed to do was sign the papers and exchange rings; it would not take longer than fifteen minutes. There was no real need to dress up as she had, but despite the simplicity of Soviet marriages, Christine wanted to feel beautiful.

She wondered what Erik would think when he saw her.

A knock sounded on the door, and she turned away from the mirror to see Meg peeking her head in. Her friend looked lovely, dressed in a gown of pale pink to compliment her fair complexion. Her golden hair was coiffed up with a few tresses escaping their pins, framing her face with loose waves. A smile crossed her lips as she stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. "You look beautiful, Christine."

Christine felt her lips curl upwards and tugged at a wayward lock of hair. "Thank you," she said bashfully. She was never one to busy herself over her appearance; though she did have her own distinct style, she had never thought to put much effort into her everyday clothing.

Now, however—now she felt radiant, glorious, giddy at the thought of the day's events to come.

"How are you feeling?" Meg asked, approaching with light steps.

"Excited," the brunette answered honestly. She knew that, commonly, brides were often nervous on the day of their wedding. Nervousness, however, would imply doubt—and Christine held no doubts of marrying the love of her life. Her heart was a wild, thrumming melody, senseless and fierce.

Her friend laughed, reaching out to affectionately grasp at her hands. "Let's get you married, then."

Turning back towards the mirror, Christine inspected her appearance once more. Cobalt eyes blinked back at her, wide and brimming with anticipation. "Are the _marshrutka_ here?" she questioned, twisting a loose strand of hair with a finger. The hall they would be meeting the others in was a forty minute journey on foot, so Erik had ordered two state taxis to bring them there.

Meg crossed towards the dresser, reaching out to grab for a pin. "Yes," she replied, carefully taking the strand from Christine's finger and pinning it neatly by the back of her head. It twisted into her wild curls, sharp and hard; she held back a wince but remained obediently quiet, indulging in her friend's attention. "Anton and Dimitri have already gone with Erik to the hall. We're just waiting for you, now."

Christine frowned as Meg walked towards the foot of the bed, where her heels rested. Erik would have insisted on waiting for her, she knew, and he was incredibly stubborn. It was a miracle that the others were able to pry him away.

Meg rolled her eyes at her quizzical look, answering her question before she could open her mouth. "The groom shouldn't see the bride before the wedding, Christine; you _know_ that. It's bad enough that you already spent the night together—"

"Meg, we _live_ together," Christine said exasperatedly.

"Yes, and by the state I found you in this morning, you had taken full advantage of that."

A flush coloured Christine's cheeks, a secret smile curling at her lips. She had been at the receiving end of Meg's pointed looks ever since her friend found her nude and sound asleep earlier that morning. A few questions told her that Erik had already dressed when Meg had arrived, and knowing her fiancé, he had harboured a satisfied smirk on his face the entire time.

Christine shrugged, slightly embarrased but never regretful. They had known of wedding traditions, of course, but neither she nor Erik had wanted to spend the night away from each other. And _perhaps_ they had been far too eager for the events of the next day to wait for their actual wedding night, but neither groom nor bride had cared much.

Meg was still facing her, a thin eyebrow arched knowingly, and she lifted her shoulders in another shrug. "Erik's never been one for tradition," she reasoned weakly.

The blonde simply rolled her eyes before gesturing towards the shoes. Crossing the room to where Meg stood, Christine slipped her feet into the silver heels. They added an extra four inches; she would be closer to Erik's height, she noted with satisfaction.

It would be easier to pull him down for a kiss once they were married.

Christine turned away from Meg, waiting for her to arrange the veil on her hair. A few moments later, she felt a light, delicate material gently pinned to her styled curls, loose and flowing. Both girls had agreed beforehand not to drape it over her face, and Christine was never more grateful for their decision. She did not fancy walking towards Erik with the thin material covering her face.

"There," Meg finished, smiling as Christine turned around. "Oh, I can't wait to see Erik's face when he sees you."

Christine laughed lightly. "He helped me pick the dress, Meg."

"Oh, you two are useless."

With another laugh, the two girls left the bedroom to enter the living area. Where it was usually neat and tidy, today it was particularly mussed, various objects scattered around the room; a discarded suit jacket draped over the sofa, a few scraps of paper abandoned in a corner.

Elena, Anton's wife, was perched comfortably on the sofa, a book in hand. She was a regal woman with her long nose and pointed chin, though her eyes were coloured a deep, warm brown. Upon seeing the two women enter, she snapped the book shut and stood. A wide grin stretched across her pink lips at the sight of Christine.

"Stunning!" she exclaimed, moving forwards to catch the bride in her arms. Christine laughed and returned the woman's hug. She had never been too closely acquainted with her, only meeting her on certain parties or occasions. She had only invited the woman out of politeness, since Anton was making an appearance.

Still, she could not deny that Elena was a good-natured woman, and was surprisingly glad to have her attend her wedding. Her heart was bursting, warmth a pool bubbling within her chest.

"Elena, did Dimitri take the camera with him?" Meg asked, as Elena pulled away with a last, almost motherly, squeeze. The blonde was checking the small flat for any items they might have left behind.

Elena nodded.

"And the flowers?"

The older woman turned to reach for a bouquet of red roses perched on the coffee table. "They're here."

Christine inhaled the sweet fragrance of the flowers, sighing contentedly. It was fitting that she was to carry them on her wedding day, since her fiancé— _husband in the next hour_ , she thought giddily—never failed to present the red blossoms to her on any special occasion. Had Erik told Meg that, or was her friend particularly observant?

Meg nodded decisively, seemingly satisfied. "Good." She turned towards Christine with a soft smile softly and stepped forwards, brushing at the corner of her lips where some lipstick had smudged. "Ready?"

 _Ready?_

It was a ridiculous question, really; of _course_ she was ready! She had dressed herself in white, had—somewhat—followed the traditions before a wedding, and all she could think of was the prospect of seeing Erik again. She was about to see Erik, and she was going to marry him.

She was going to _marry_ him.

And Meg was asking her if she was _ready?_

Not wanting to waste time, she nodded sharp and quick. "Yes. Let's go."

She could hardly recall the journey there, vaguely registering being ushered into the waiting taxi, Meg fussing with her veil and Elena chattering wistfully of the joys of her first year of marriage. Their words were drowned out by the roar of the engine, the bumps in the road. Her thoughts were muddled yet distinctly, sharply clear; she could not think of anything but the fact that Erik was waiting for her—waiting so they could proceed with their wedding.

Her Erik, who did not enjoy social company, was waiting for her along with their guests. He was not entirely _strangers_ with them, but she knew he would be fidgeting with discomfort regardless.

Upon applying for a marriage license, the state officials had informed them that if they desired a proper ceremony, with an elaborate celebration and the renting out of the wedding hall, they would have to wait two extra months. Christine had been tempted, but Erik immediately voiced his disapproval.

"After all," he had shrugged, his arm slung around her shoulders as she leaned into him on their shared couch, "we have just about four people coming. Why wait for a ceremony?"

Christine had pulled a face. "Surely we have more than that. And it's romantic," she said, rather unconvincingly.

He had raised an eyebrow at her, inviting her to challenge him, and that had been the end of the discussion.

In the end, it seemed that they would only have four guests after all. Christine had wanted to invite her cast mates, but knew it would be rather dull—and perhaps a little awkward—for them, as they were not closely acquainted with Erik. She could not call them her closest friends herself, so upon pondering over the issue, she had agreed with Erik's proposal to invite those most dear to them.

Meg, of course, was the first guest on the list. She had been friends with the blonde for years; she could not think of her own wedding without her best friend by her side. And if Meg was to be invited, Christine knew that her friend would insist on her boyfriend's attendance, as well. She had not minded; Dimitri was a respectful member of the theatre company, and was mindful of Erik's eccentricities.

She had pushed Erik to invite Anton, knowing that the director and her lover shared a strange relationship of mutual admiration and respect, but Erik had been adversed to the idea until the other man had caught sight of Christine's engagement ring and promptly proceeded to invite himself. Erik had scoffed distastefully when he relayed the news to Christine, but she had seen the faint tug by the corners of his lips. He was glad that the director was coming regardless.

And of course, Anton had requested his wife's attendance as well, and Christine was more than happy to nod her agreement.

Soon enough, the three women stepped out of the taxi, having finally arrived at the Department of Public Services. The building that was to host their marriage was lavishly decorated, though Christine had not expected anything less; anything owned by the state was more grand than the communal areas. The structure was painted a rich white, flawless and untainted, the doors grand and large. Her heels clicked against the concrete stairs as they approached, the sound drowned out by the traffic from the road.

The building was busy. People rushed about—state officials and government workers, she assumed—and barely gave her a second glance, as if seeing a woman in a white dress and veil was a common occurance to them. She supposed it _was_ common, in a way; marriages were surely conducted all the time in the building.

The thought sobered her racing heart for a few moments, and she managed to take a few breaths to calm herself. In the eyes of the state, this day was nothing special; it was another opportunity to entice another couple into forming another family. Hardly anything special.

Meg suddenly appeared, startling Christine from her thoughts; she had not even noticed her friend leaving the room, so lost was she in her ponderings. "Where's the bride?" her friend called, looking flustered and flushed. Christine recognised Dimitri trailing behind her, camera in hand. He was dressed in a handsome suit jacket and dress pants, though his hair was slightly mussed. Christine recollected the feature as a distinct part of his personal style.

As if from a distance, Christine watched as Meg rushed to her, thrusting the red roses into her hand. "Come—they're waiting." Her friend began to fuss over her gown, straightening her veil and smoothening out the creases of her dress.

"Them?" she questioned.

"The minister."

She blinked, remembering all at once _why_ the minister was waiting. They were going to head into the front room, where the minister and Anton and—a glance around her told her that Elena had ventured into the other room, as well—were waiting. Where _Erik_ was waiting.

Waiting to make her his bride and he her groom.

And all at once, feeling rushed into her core once more. This was _not_ an ordinary occurance; her marriage was _not_ to be dismissed as noncomittal.

She was about to marry her confidant, lover; she was about to marry her Erik.

Squaring her shoulders, Christine turned determinedly to her friend. "I want to see Erik," she said firmly, dismissing all thoughts of the minister from her mind. Today was for him and only him.

"I swear, you two are made for each other," Meg rolled her eyes. "He's with Anton and Elena, and he's asking—no, _demanding_ to see you."

"He's getting quite impatient," Dimitri laughed as he approached, embracing her with an outstretched arm. "Hello, Christine. _Ti preekrahsnah vigleedeesh."_

"Thank you, Dimitri." She forced a smile out of coutesy and hugged him back, pushing away her impatience for a moment. "And thank you for coming."

"Of course. Meg would not have let me miss your happy day, anyway," he shrugged.

"No I wouldn't have," Meg affirmed, unapologetic. "Come, Christine, or I think Erik will come and get you himself."

The laugh that was about to escape her lips caught in her throat. They were leading her to the door— _Erik_ was behind that door. He was standing there, waiting for her in his dress suit, probably impatiently tapping his foot as he checked his watch. He did not stand for tardiness, and she knew she was not _late_ in any sense, but Christine still felt guilty for making him wait.

He should not have to wait another second to become a married man.

Blue eyes darted up, meeting the worried gaze of her friend. She could feel her heart speeding, racing within her chest. The lace that clung to her arms seemed strangely hot, now.

Meg stepped forwards, reaching out to grasp Christine's shoulder. "Are you alright?" she asked, eyebrows stitching in concern. Dimitri quietly escaped to the front room, sensing their need to converse in private. "Nervous?"

Christine closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She could feel the flutter of lashes against her cheek, light and tentative.

She was not _nervous_. No; nervous was not an adequate word to describe what she was feeling. Her heart seemed to thrum with anticipation, a tentative flutter within her chest, set to begin soaring, to start anew.

She knew that marriage would not change much in her relationship with Erik. They were already living together, breached into intimacy together, confided everything with each other. She was deeply, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him and the opportunity to be legally bound together, to set up a shared bank account and take on a new name would not change that in the slightest.

But even as her mind told her this, her heart was beating steadily within her chest, strong, _alive_. The air itself seemed to be cleaner, fresher. A wild, eager sense of _hope_ beat within her blood.

Today, her life began anew, and the swift realisation of it all knocked the breath out of her chest.

"No," she was finally able to answer, shaking her head. Christine stared at her friend with unbirdled awe, and whispered, "No, I'm not nervous. I'm going to be _married_."

Meg smiled, nodding as she squeezed the shoulder she grasped. "Yes you are, Christine," she said softly, "yes you are."

With a newfound determination, Christine nodded and allowed herself to be led into the front room, her best friend by her side.

Erik was standing by the raised desk that held the paperwork, his head bowed and shoulders tensed. Her breath hitched at the sight of him; she recognised his posture, knew immediately that he was studying the documents that they were to sign. The door shut loudly behind them and she found herself momentarily distracted, turning back as if to follow the echoing close with her eyes.

When she turned back, she found that he had whirled around to face her, his golden gaze at once captivating and rooting her to the spot.

He was dressed in an impeccable suit; she noticed with appreciation how it hugged his form, showing off his lean figure rather dashingly. A red rose was tucked into his jacket pocket, a perfect match to the larger bouquet she held in her arms. His hair was gelled back neatly, and she found herself wanting to reach out and run her fingers through his sparse locks.

But what entranced her completely was the expression of utter _wonder_ on his face, his thin lips parting, golden eyes reverently drinking in the sight of her standing across the room.

Christine did not need to be told to walk towards him.

Everything around her seemed to still, drowned out by the catch of his eyes on hers, his fingers uncurling from its fists by his side, until nothing existed apart from him, standing there, waiting for her. The heels she wore clicked loudly, echoing as she walked towards him, but she hardly heared it; she imagined she could hear him breathing as she watched the rise and fall of his chest, knowing that his heart must be beating in time with hers, synchronised and perfectly matched. Her blood was rushing in her ears, thrumming as she continued to walk towards him, steady and _sure._

She had never been so sure of anything in her life.

His hand was held out, palm facing upwards in an invitation. She was finally— _finally_ —close enough to close the distance between them, to place her hand in his. A shuddering exhale escaped his lips when her skin touched his and she looked into his electrifying gaze, lost.

She was always lost when it came to him.

The minister was talking, but she couldn't bring herself to listen. Vaguely, she was aware of Meg taking the bouquet from her, heard the mention of the responsibility to create a family, but cared not to pay attention; Erik had already outlined these conditions to her thoroughly so she would be perfectly aware of what she would be agreeing to when she wedded him.

Instead, she stared at him. They were not in a church, but his burning gaze was fierce and reverant; had she not already been holding his hand she might have found her knees collapsing from the intensity of his eyes. Perhaps she should have been scared—other brides would have been. But she couldn't bring herself to think of anyone but him—her Erik.

Soon enough, Christine was shaken out of her stupor by a pat on the shoulder from behind her. Turning, she stared with bewilderment at Meg's beaming face, her eyebrows raised in question. Meg rolled her eyes and grasped her free hand—the other was still tightly holding onto Erik's—and placed something small and cool on her palm. Christine looked down and saw a circular band sitting in the middle of her palm, gold and light, meant for a finger larger than hers.

She turned back to Erik and found him holding a band as well, this one much smaller in size.

They exchanged rings, only breaking their gaze to look down at each other's hands as they slid their respective tokens on. Erik's ring fitted around her fourth finger perfectly; her breath caught at the simplicity of it, a plain gold band to match his. She looked up at him, feeling her breathing stop completely at the sight of the tender expression on his face, awed and resonant.

Erik lifted her hand up to his lips, and she was reminded of the very first time she had met him, dashing and powerful, waiting for her at the stage door. But where he had once kissed her bare knuckles, now his lips pressed against the ring circling her finger, the molten gold a match to his swirling eyes.

Unable to resist him, Christine slid her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Erik responded enthusiastically, slipping his arms around her waist and holding her tight to him, his lips firm and steady beneath hers. She felt his smile and broke away to let out a laugh against his mouth, feeling delirious and dizzy and intoxicated on him.

There were sounds of cheering in the background; she faintly heard a _whoop_ when Erik pulled her in once more and kissed her deeply, making her legs wobble beneath her. Her breaths were short and quick when he finally pulled away, and she smiled as he pressed his forehead against hers.

"Fate links thee to me, forever and a day," Erik murmured softly, beautifully.

Christine felt another laugh bubble in her chest, this one delirious and giddy. "I love you too," she responded less eloquently, and felt rather than heard the chuckle he breathed into her mouth.

And when he pressed his lips into her hair as she leaned into him, his grin wide and unashamed in front of the guests he hardly knew, Christine knew there could not be a happier bride.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

Everyday seemed new, fresh, a breath of life finally taken into the depths of his soul. His every waking moment was no longer spent moping around, pushing away the guilt that ate at him—the guilt he had tried so hard to suppress. No; uncovering his experiences— _his secrets_ —to Christine had made him feel strangely light, as if a weight had been lifted from his chest.

Erik felt alive once more.

He found his muse again, and began his days composing. Music gripped him like a heavenly chain and he succumbed to it, melodies bursting from his fingertips, ardent and glorious once more. His instruments sang with life, and he created with such fervour, inspired by the woman who had stood by his side throughout.

Christine.

Their love blossomed once more. No longer did he shy away from her; no longer did he reject her touches, her caresses of his mangled, distorted face. She did not shun him; she was not disgusted by the monstrosity of his flesh. She slowly coaxed him to realise that he was not a monstrosity to behold, that he was not the ugly creature Jalil had made him out to be. Every knife mark, every bruise was tenderly brushed until Erik could no longer recall anything tracing his skin other than the smooth kisses from her lips.

She was determined to help him recover himself, and he loved her all the more for it.

A flourish from his pen on the manuscript, and Erik leaned back. It was yet another piece he had composed whilst thinking of her. The sheet lay compliantly against the music stand of the piano, inky scratches and crosses from his own hand donning the paper. The room was lit by soft firelight, held within the candelabra perched on the side of the piano. It lent a flickering orange hue, more calming than the bright whiteness of their electrical lights. He traced the notes he had scribbled down with golden eyes, studying the song carefully.

Somehow, it seemed incomplete.

Erik could not fathom what was missing; on paper, ir seemed a masterpiece. There were no slips of timing, no notes that rang out as strange to his ears. The notes rose and fell, music mixing and swelling with emotion and intent, clear and ardent. He hadn't been able to suppress writing it; the melody had been prickling at his mind since those days he spent in the shadows of the village, in Afghanistan...

He closed his eyes, preparing for the onslaught of emotions—the pull into darkness, clutching and crying at his soul, drawing him in once more. It was always the result whenever he thought about his time in the war. His head bowed, too tired to fight against his guilt, his despair, his pain.

It was surprising to realise that it never came.

Golden eyes blinked open, startled and caught off guard. He had expected the pain, expected to be tormented with memories—with _Khan_. For months, he had kept this within himself, suffering silently as he relived images from Afghanistan, replaying his companion's death again and again within his mind...

The thought still saddened him, but it did not plague him as it did before.

"Trouble sleeping?"

The voice—still sweetly honeyed despite being thick from sleep—cut through his thoughts, sharply bringing him back to the present. His head snapped up, torso turning to catch sight of his lovely wife leaning against the edge of the door. She was clad in one of his shirts that ended by her mid-thighs, showing a generous amount of her silky legs to his eyes. The sleeves were too long for her arms, covering her hands. Her eyelids were heavy, curls wild and messy, a yawn escaping her pale lips.

She was positively breathtaking.

Sighing, Erik murmured, "Did I wake you? I'm sorry—I'll play a little softer."

A soft smile crossed her lips and she shook her head. "No, Erik. I woke up when I didn't feel you next to me."

It still gave him a thrill to see her tender gaze directed to him, open and bare, so loving and so _right_. After their months of tiptoeing around each other, he had almost forgotten how intense his adoration for her was.

Still, he had indirectly caused her current wakefulness by leaving her side. His lips parted, about to issue an apology before she interrupted him with a raised brow.

"No, Erik, that doesn't mean you woke me up." A knowing smile tugged at her lips, warm and familiar. Unfolding her arms, she began to cross the room, long legs bringing her closer to where he sat. He sighed when her arms wound around his shoulders, holding him in a tender embrace. He could feel her breath against his forehead as a smooth cheek leaned against his uncovered skin, soft and sweet.

His own hand was cold against hers when he lifted it to tangle their fingers together, his palm over her knuckles. Bringing her hand to his lips, he pressed a reverent kiss to the inside of her wrist. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," she hummed vaguely. "What's troubling you?"

"Don't worry about it, Christine," he responded, closing his eyes at the feeling of her soft fingers combing through his hair. Her nails occasionally grazed his scalp, scratching at his head in a pleasant way. Another sigh left his lips when her lips pressed against his face, at the spot where his eyebrow began to contort itself. Despite her comforting embrace, Erik found himself thinking about the time; it was nearing one in the morning, and she'd had two performances today. It would not be suitable for her to yawn her way through the next day's performance because he had kept her up with his incessant playing.

Pressing another kiss to her palm, he said soothingly, "You must be tired, hm? You've had a long day. Go back to sleep, sweetheart; I'll hold you, if you'd like."

He felt her smile against his hair. "That does sound quite nice."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"Mmm," she hummed again, the sound reverberating from deep within her chest. "I'd love that, but you didn't answer my question. What's wrong?"

He let out a small chuckle, opening his eyes once more. "You won't let this go, will you?"

"No," she said persistently. "What's wrong?"

A sigh left his lips. _Nothing_ , he wanted to tell her, _nothing is wrong and it confuses me_. There was no pain, no guilt; it seemed a dull sensation now, an echo of a life he used to live. The Phantom had gone into the war, and a scarred man had emerged from it.

And now... now neither of them seemed to exist within him anymore. The liberation that came with it felt strange.

But mentioning it to her would considerably darken the mood between them, so Erik gestured to the manuscript instead. "It sounds..." he drifted off, golden eyes scanning the music he had written down. "Something's missing."

Christine leaned forwards, her chin resting on his shoulder so she could better study the sheet music. "Missing?" her voice murmured next to his ear, sending pleasant shivers down his spine. "But I heard you playing just now. It sounded beautiful."

"But it's still incomplete," he insisted. "Look, just here..."

Resting his hands on the keys, he began to play the part for her, skilfully weaving the melody from his beloved instrument. The tune flowed easily from his musician's fingers, glorious and rich in sound and tone, before he abruptly stopped midway.

"There," he nodded towards the section on the manuscript, knowing that Christine was studying it carefully as she hovered behind him.

"Hm," she mused. "Okay, I see what you're saying."

"Exactly."

They were silent for a long moment, both thinking over the music. The candles flickered softly around them, and Erik found his thoughts drifting to the hand that unconsciously stroked the side of his face, soothing and soft. He could feel the scarred skin that was caught by her thumb, the irregular gaps and ridges making her fingers dip and trace over abnormal tissue.

And yet, she did not show any signs of pulling away. She did not give any hint towards her disgust.

He still marvelled over how readily she accepted his newly created deformity.

Christine, meanwhile, was still pondering over the song he had penned. All of a sudden, she straightened behind him, pillowing his head below the swell of her breasts. "But," he heard her say as she walked around the bench, "maybe..."

She sat next to him and, almost tentatively, she placed her hands on the piano, softly caressing the ivory keys with delicate fingers. Erik watched her sharply, his attention diverted solely to her. A question began to form at his lips, because while she knew of musical theory, Christine could not play much herself—

She began playing and his mouth snapped shut.

The song sounded more graceful, more tender from her fingers. She played, softly at first before increasing the tempo of the piece, losing herself to the rush of song, the swell of chords rising and falling. He watched her, enraptured. Not once had he seen his Christine play like this—in their time together he had attempted to teach her some piano, but she had always laughed it off, claiming to be more of a singer than an instrumentalist...

The song drifted to a gentle close, the final note echoing in the air as she pressed down on the key.** There was no sound in the room apart from their breathing—his measured, hers slightly breathless from the passion she had put into his music—and he stared at her, the unasked question burning in his gaze.

Cobalt eyes met burning gold and Christine looked down, resting her hands in her lap. She looked almost sheepish as she began to explain. "When you were gone, I... I felt empty. The flat was quiet, and the bed felt too large. I worried about you every night; I wanted to feel close to you. Sometimes, I'd come in here and just play something—anything I could find. Usually, they were songs you left on your desk—they reminded me most of you. It became a daily habit, after a while." A dainty shrug of her shoulders and her head lifted to look up at him once more, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I guess I improved in the process."

Erik nodded wordlessly, still staring at her. "Yes, you did."

Her lips stretched wider, happy and adorable. "So," she said, looking at him so demurely she looked almost shy, "did you like it?"

His immediate response would have been 'yes'—because how could she ask him that question? She pleased him by breathing—but the musician in him instructed him to reconsider. Silently, he ran through the composition, replaying Christine's interpretation within his mind. The increased tempo _did_ add to the intensity of the piece, lending it a desperate, rushing climax, impassioned and fervent...

Finally, he nodded decisively. Bending forwards, he lifted a thin hand to add a scrawl to the manuscript in front of them. "Yes," he said softly when he had finished, turning his head to look at her. "Yes, I do."

Christine's answering smile was brighter than the sun.

* * *

He did not tell her of the mask, but worked on it during the hours she spent at the theatre. He had not ventured outside since that fateful day when he had almost left her, but crafted the mask regardless, determined to create a cover for his face—something strong, regal, imposing. He worked on the mask alongside other projects: sketches of buildings he would like to build, blueprints of redesigning their home.

Drawings of his wife when she smiled at him, cobalt eyes bright and loving.

But when Christine left, he would return to the mask. Somehow, he knew she would frown at him— _you don't have to cover your face, Erik_ , she had reminded him over and over, her words painfully sweet—but others were not like his wife. He could not stay within their home forever, but he could not venture outside without drawing attention to himself.

The mask was a perfect compromise.

It was a gleaming white, fitting against his skin perfectly. The soft leather was shaped to create the impression of an ordinary face while still settling comfortably against his flesh, supple and convenient. It made him look imposing and slightly menacing, yet dignified all the same. His enemies were all dead, but if any related to them were to catch sight of him in public, there would be no doubt in their hearts that the Phantom was still alive and perfectly capable of wrecking havoc on their lives should they provoke him.

And the KGB—he would use their prized weapon, the Phantom, and create a mockery out of him, and they would not be able to do anything about it.

He was a free man, now. They would _not_ bother him again.

That night was the final performance of the Bolshoi's most recent production. Christine had been saddened by it—their current opera was her favourite yet, she had told him. The passion, the music—it was unlike any other, she had said.

Erik stared at the ticket he held in his hand.

She had approached him the previous night, clutching it between tentative fingers. It was late and they were about to retire, both exhausted from the events of the day.

"Our show closes tomorrow night," she had begun as they climbed into bed together. The sheets rustled around him as she swung a slender leg under the covers, infusing the mattress with her warmth.

"I know," Erik had replied, shifting closer to her and lowering himself to rest his head on the pillow.

Christine bit her lip as he brought the covers up around them. His eyes latched onto the pale lip caught between her teeth, growing pink the longer she held it there.

A frown marred his uncovered face, bare for her to see. She seemed hesitant, uncertain, somehow; it was clear that something was bothering her. Shifting once more so he was closer to her, he reached long fingers to cup her cheek, feeling her smooth skin beneath his touch. Three years of a relationship with Christine had taught him that she tended to relax whenever he kissed her skin, no matter how agitated she was. His breath washed her neck as he nuzzled his face into it, sighing in contentment when one of her hands reached up to stroke his deformed skin.

He could never get enough of her touch.

True to his expectations, he felt her start to relax at the feel of his mouth against her neck, a sigh of her own escaping her. Thin lips dragged up to her cheek to brush lightly there, soft and comforting. Her chest contracted under the arm that was laying above her breasts.

"I have a spare ticket," she had revealed quietly. "Mid-row, unblocked view of the stage. If—if you'd like to come, that is."

Instantly, his lips froze against her cheek. Not once had she asked him to attend her shows since he had returned; not once had she asked him to step out of the flat for her. "Christine..."

A sigh, deeper and heavier this time, escaped her lips. "I know, I know. I just... I wanted a seat for you, that's all. You don't have to be there. I understand, Erik."

His heart twisted in his chest; a grimace settled upon his lips. He turned so he was lying on his back, golden eyes trained on the ceiling. "Christine," he had begun, "I want to be there for you, but..."

Her hand reached for his beneath the covers, fingers tangling so they melded with his. Unbidden, his head turned and caught her gaze: full of understanding, trying to hide disappointment. "It's alright, Erik," she had said softly. "You don't have to come. You're right; it's too soon."

A smile that didn't reach her eyes had tugged at her lips and she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. He sighed against her lips, his thudding heart strong beneath her palm. When she pulled back he could no longer see her despondency; he was drawn in by the brilliant blue eyes that stared at him, capturing his soul. "Goodnight, Erik," she whispered, their faces a breath apart.

There was no guilt tugging at his heart when they parted this afternoon. Their morning together had been sweet—as it always was, now—and she had kissed him so tenderly, so thoroughly, that he was left thinking of nothing but her when the front door closed behind her.

Now, an hour before the final performance of her show, Erik stood in front of his cupboard. He was clothed in fine evening wear: the suit he had chosen was impeccably styled and perfectly tailored to his form, the cravat he donned instead of a tie tucked firmly around his collar. His shoes were a fine, polished black, sharp and long. A rose was tucked into the pocket of his blazer, the blooming red a rich contrast to the elegant black of his ensemble.

The white mask covered half his face, clean and refined. He looked like a distinguished gentleman, regal and impressive in stature.

He took a deep breath.

To venture outside their flat was a bridge he had not wanted to cross. Erik wanted to be there for her, to experience her glory as she sang on stage. Already, he was beaming with pride for her—reading the rave reviews from each performance filled him with satisfied awe for his wife—but he knew the difference between congratulating her from the sidelines and attending the show she had invested so much into. She practiced excessively, asking him to accompany and direct her now he had started composing again, and came home enthusing about how the audience had soaked up the little changes in her voice, tone, acting. They had worked together on perfecting her role, and he knew that all she wanted was for him to be a witness to it.

He knew that he could easily sneak into the theatre and watch her from the shadows. The Bolshoi was home to many hidden passages, and he was—had been—the _Phantom_. Hell, he could walk up to the flies and watch her if he so wished. But it seemed wrong, somehow, to hide away—her silent husband, always the spectator shying away.

He had always been a master of the shadows, but not once had he truly lived in them. And Christine... all she wanted was for him to embrace normality again. She had no desire for him to conceal himself because of his face; she wanted him to be able to walk freely without caring of his appearance.

And if he was honest with himself, it was all he wanted, as well.

Erik let out a breath, shutting his eyes tightly.

 _Do this for her_ — _for_ yourself _._

 _For both of you_.

With a sharp, determined breath, Erik strode out the front door—pausing at the last minute to grab at the fedora that hung by their coat rack—and locked it behind him.

Every step down the fire escape of the building was harrowing. An ever-present fear of encountering a neighbour pressed at his mind, their gazes in his mind questioning and prying. He rushed forwards as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. When he finally reached the ground floor, he strode purposefully towards the exit, refusing to think as he left the building.

The first step outside was... astonishing. Erik hadn't paid much attention to his surroundings when he left the first time he had left—all he had been thinking of was Christine's reaction to his face, her nightmare, her terrified and pleading expression—and all that had mattered was to get as far away from their flat as he could. Inhaling deeply, he now noticed the abundance of fresh air he breathed in; it seemed crisper, cleaner than ever. The sun had long gone by now, leaving him—and the others roaming the street—in a calm, pleasant twilight.

It was strange to see so many other people after months of locking himself up in the flat. Again, his brief trip outside had allowed him a glimpse, but he had been maddened with grief, driven to insanity with his misery that they had resembled ghosts more than humans then. Now, standing by the exit of his building, watching men and women walk idly by... it seemed strangely surreal.

He caught one or two bewildered looks as he began to journey to the theatre, but they did not linger long. There were glances, of course, but they quickly whipped their heads away, each one too engrossed in getting to their destination to wonder about the man in the mask. It was curiously lightening to finally confront this fear and know that he had troubled himself over something that did not give him much cause.

It was simple to slip unnoticed into the theatre. He blended easily into the crowd, hat tipped low over his head as he manoeuvred through the sea of theatregoers. The air thrummed with the unvoiced excitement of a final performance; every audience member was filled with anticipation and eagerness to experience this masterpiece.

He entered the stalls a minute before the show started, when the lights had dimmed and the crowd had hushed. A central walkway parted the seats in the middle of the stalls, the rich carpeted floor stretching out to finally end at the orchestra pit. He was silently thankful to Christine for obtaining an aisle seat for him; he had a perfect view of the stage, and he could easily slip in and out of his seat should any issues arise.

The first swell of music begun and Erik fixed his eyes on the stage, readying himself to experience his wife's triumph.

The show was fantastic. Every song, every strum of a harp or surge of a violin, was perfectly played. He recognised the conductor, having worked with him before, and it was almost impossible to keep himself from smiling as the orchestra played through the overture. His attentive ear picked out the various styles of particular instrumentalists; a heavier beat here, a harsher strum there. It was oddly uplifting to discover that his advice had been followed, and the orchestra were as radiant as ever.

The singers, too, were ardent and passionate, melodies tumbling from their lips with rich triumph, every emotion of the character sung with the fervour of a last performance. He read behind their bright eyes, felt their energy through their impassioned song. Each lyric was carefully enunciated, and he delighted in the depth of their characterisation. The dancers were fluid and graceful, never missing a move or floundering through their steps. It was clear that every member of the cast was well versed and deeply swept into the storyline of the opera, each an expert of their own character.

But nothing could take his attention away from Christine.

When she had first stepped on stage, his heart had almost stopped in his chest. She was positively breathtaking; her cobalt eyes bright and shining, her golden voice ringing out clearly for the audience to hear. She flitted and danced about the stage as if it was her home, her movements graceful and confident. Every scene she was in captured the audience with wonder, and her arias ended with rapturous applause. He could feel her character's joy, her sadness and regret as if it were his own, and he drank the sight of her in, losing himself in her rich soprano and impassioned performance.

She was glorious, and he had never felt so _proud_.

The audience was roaring when the curtain finally fell, signalling the end of the performance. His ears were ringing, any lingering fear of being in public vanished from his mind. It was incredible, what good theatre could bring out—at that moment he allowed himself to drink in the triumph of the gala and just _forget_.

When the cast finally emerged to take their bows, Erik found himself clapping furiously with the rest of them. Each cast member that strode forward had a large smile on their face, mirth and proud pleasure clearly reflected in their expressions. Most faces he saw were familiar to him, having worked with them when he had surveyed the company's rehearsals, but some were new and unfamiliar. Unfazed, he applauded for them all; the Bolshoi company had never been so impressive. They deserved every bit of praise thrown to them.

At last, when the very last of the company had taken their bow, he saw her. The music swelled to a rising peak, Christine rushed forwards, and the audience erupted into a thunderous roar of praise. How she had managed to remove the wig she wore so quickly, he did not know, but he didn't dwell on it—not when he was captured by the magnificence of her smile, the beauty of her eyes. Half her curls tumbled loosely down her shoulders, having escaped from their pins, but she did not seem to care. All that seemed to matter to her was the audience, her chest rising and falling as the crowd clapped on for her, for the performance, for the company.

His heart swelled with pride and love, overjoyed by her happiness.

 _Embrace it, my love. This is all for you._

Seeing her on that stage, dressed in costume and taking her rightfully deserved bow—it reminded him of the moment when he had first seen her.

The moment he had fallen in love with her.

Without registering what he was doing, Erik stepped out of his seat, never once taking his eyes off her. All thought had left his mind, an exceptional effect only his wife seemed to have on him. He only knew that she was beautiful in her happiness, that she had worked tirelessly to be where she was right now, and that she loved him just as fiercely as he loved her.

Her eyes immediately darted to meet his as he emerged from the crowd, cobalt eyes fixing on his form. He stood as if in the middle of a parted sea, rows of seats on either side of him, staring at her from an aisle running down to the centre of the stage. The recognition was clear in her expression even before he removed the fedora from his head, holding it modestly by his side and revealing the white mask on his face. His heart was thudding wildly, untamed and wild within his chest. Vaguely, he noticed the other cast members on stage share looks of confusion but found that he simply did not _care_ , high off adrenaline and music and _her_.

He had finally let go of the past, finally conquered his aversion to leaving their flat. His passion to create was flowing through his veins, soaring within his blood. His heart thudded strong and fierce within his chest, not without burden but still undoubtedly lighter.

He felt loose, _free_.

And he was standing in the middle of the theatre where they had been brought together, where they had shared so many moments together—where he had _proposed_ to her—and staring at the love of his life as she looked back down at him. Bewildered gazes from audience and cast members alike flew from his mind, his gaze solely directed on his glorious wife. He watched as a slender hand flew up to cover her red lips, cobalt eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, and felt the music in every breath she took.

Quickly, purposefully, Christine began to move to the side of the stage where the stairs leading down to the audience were. Her costume was an elegant, flowing dress that left a trail behind her swift steps, lightly caressing the floor as she continued to move forwards. Golden eyes never left her form until she was finally directly opposite him, the distance between them quickly travelled.

It was unclear who had closed the short space between them but finally she was in his arms, holding onto him as tightly as he held onto her. Erik pressed himself to her, one hand cradling her head and the other wounded around her waist; her warm body moulded so perfectly against his own, as if they had been made to fit together. In the back of his mind he registered a gradual rise in volume of the applause but did not linger on it, not when she was hugging him and pressing her lips to his neck, the sweet scent of her shampoo invading his senses.

Christine pulled back and he was caught by the flood of emotion within her gaze, the success of the performance and the thrill of seeing him overwhelming her. "You came," she breathed, and he felt her wisp of air against his lips.

A thin hand rose to tenderly brush a wayward curl from her face. "Of course I did," he murmured, staring at her with his entire being.

He felt himself begin to smile as she beamed at him. Cobalt eyes ran down the length of his masked side, acknowledging it for the first time since they reunited. "Nice mask," she commented lightly, and his grin widened.

"Yes," he answered, resting a palm against her cheek, "I rather like it, myself."

A delighted laugh bubbled from her lips, light and honeyed, the most beautiful sound he had heard tumble from her lips. Unable to resist her anymore, he bent his head, sighing when his lips touched hers.

The applause rose to a deafening peak, the company clapping along with smiling faces, but the couple remained blissfully unaware of anything apart from each other. They held each other tightly, content to stay in the other's embrace.

And as Erik pulled back and met the loving gaze of his wife, so glorious, so supportive, he resolved to never allow himself the blunder of letting her go ever again.

* * *

 **A/N:** See what I mean by happy? It feels so strange!

Russian translations: _Ti preekrahsnah vigleedeesh_ —you look lovely

*Christine's dress can be found on my tumblr, **halfwayreal** , under the tag ATS stuff. Or, just go on the general After The Storm tag.

**The song Erik composes is Photographby Arcade Fire. If you disagree, that's okay—let me know if any other composition pops up in your mind!

Leave a review, let me know what you think!


	22. What We Lived For

**A/N:** Guess who's back!

I know I owe you guys a huge apology—it's been months since the last update, and I'm really sorry about that. Exams and personal life distracted me, but I was comforted by the fact that the plot of this story is pretty much done. Really, it isn't _that_ necessary to include this chapter, but I felt like some _more_ peace and happiness should result from everything our couple has gone through.

Thanks as always for the wonderful reviews, follows and favourites! I wouldn't have gotten anywhere with this story without your support. Just the epilogue, and ATS will officially be completed! _But_ , I can't guarantee to post it anytime soon since I'll be travelling places, so please be patient with me! I promise it won't amount to four months again, lol.

 **Warning:** Smut, and it's quite extensive. Considering that this is an important moment that speaks of their acceptance and comfort once more, I felt like it was necessary to include it.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, After The Storm, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _And I took you by the hand_

 _And we stood tall,_

 _And remembered our own land,_

 _What we lived for._

* * *

Gracing the stage with her exuberant enthusiasm, seeing Erik emerge from the crowd and staring up at her—it was a glorious, maddeningly wonderful feeling.

He was here, with her, and he was not about to leave.

She was certain she'd remember the moment they'd kissed in front of the entire theatre for the rest of her life. Words couldn't have encapsulated how much it had _meant_ to her, to see him there, to know that he had come. The white mask had been a surprise; she hadn't realised he had obtained one, or perhaps she hadn't paid close enough attention to what he was doing when she wasn't with him.

Still, she saw it for what it was: his determination to blend into society once more. To take what he had done, what he had experienced, and leave it behind.

To move on.

Her heart had been full after the curtain call—brimming with so much joy she wondered how it was even possible to feel so _alive_ —when she had led him backstage into the buzz of satisfied actors, of hugging dancers and whooping instrumentalists. It had been an incredible performance, and Christine was wonderfully, wholeheartedly _happy_ with their closing night.

And having Erik there to watch her, knowing that he was finally— _finally_ —ready to take a step forwards—the night couldn't have been any more _perfect_.

Christine looked up into the mirror of her dresser, a pad of cotton held between dainty fingers as she wiped the thick stage make-up off her face. Her costume had been hung up on the rack for the last time, a magnificent gown of gold and white, decorated with rich patterns of twining roses. Perhaps she should have been more bittersweet, more reluctant to let another character go, to leave another production behind.

There was no such feeling in her heart.

Cobalt eyes drifted towards the left, taking in the sight of Erik reflected in her mirror. Her eyes roamed his figure; he was sat upon the small chaise in her dressing room, golden eyes trained onto the programme book he was leafing through. The white mask upon his face was stark against his complexion, boldly sculpted to cover his disfigurement, his wounds.

He looked regal, sure. As if he was a king, calm and composed in his land, knowing he belonged.

Her heart softened and soared at the sight of him. He was _here_.

Perhaps he had sensed her gaze, for he flicked his eyes upward, meeting her own in the mirror. The hand that had stilled slowly moved to wipe off the last remains of her make-up, a small smile tugging at her lips. She felt shy, warm. As if everything was new once more.

It was him; it was _them_. They were new, here, once more. Rediscovering and knowing.

Tossing the stained pad into the bin, Christine turned on the stool she sat upon, face freshly cleaned, skin bright and unblemished. She watched as Erik set the programme aside, limbs taut and expectant. His expression was one of an almost nervous uncertainty, a breathless anticipation, unconcealed and clear before her eyes—and _oh_ , how long had it been since she was able to _see_ him, to understand without words what he was telling her?

Slowly, she rose from the chair, slender legs crossing the room to stand in front of him. Her feet sunk into the soft cushion of the carpeted floor, padded and warm as she gazed down at him softly.

Erik tilted his head up to look at her, the corners of his lips tugging lightly as she reached down, grasped his hands in hers. The pads of his fingers brushed against the back of her hand, comforting and reassuring. Familiar. _Whole_.

"Don't you need to get dressed?" he murmured. A wayward lock of hair fell into his eyes and she instinctively lifted her hand, brushing it away. She could have counted his eyelashes as he closed his eyes at her touch, the long, thin strips lightly kissing his skin.

"Yes," Christine acknowledged absentmindedly. Lithe fingers wove through his hair, brushing the locks through the gaps between her skin. Her gaze was fixed upon him, observing the tiniest of sighs escaping his lips, the crease upon his forehead slowly fading.

Still, she found herself quite reluctant to leave his presence—she had been craving him far too long. Carefully, she lowered herself so she was perched atop his lap, swinging agile legs over his strong ones. The hands she felt around her waist were comforting, a sure sign of his faith—of his _love_ —and she thrived within it. His thighs pressed into the backs of hers as she adjusted herself upon his lap, glad that he allowed it, glad that he seemed to _want_ it.

Two strangers learning to fall in love again.

"We're in no hurry," Christine shrugged, winding her arms around his neck. She could feel Erik's breath against her jaw, his gaze warm, open, _sure._ A smile played upon her lips as she continued softly, "They'll understand."

A wry smile touched his lips, and Christine succumbed to the sudden, overwhelming _need_ to press her lips to his, to feel his mouth against hers. For the longest time, she had not seen him smile; every quirk of his lips was a magnitude of colour, bursting before her eyelids. Now she could _feel_ the curve of his mouth as she kissed him, heart floating when his grip around her tightened, his sigh breathed into her throat.

"You were wonderful tonight," Erik murmured against her lips when at last they parted. "I'm so proud of you."

A small smile crossed her features as he leaned his temple against hers, exhaling contentedly. She could not stop the curve of her mouth, the giddy, _wonderful_ feeling that overtook her at the sight of him, at the sound of his voice.

God, she loved him.

" _I'm_ so proud of _you,"_ she countered, unable to stop smiling. Her fingers moved to curl in his hair, lightly brushing at his thick locks. "You're here. You came."

"I came for _you_."

And if it was possible she felt warmth flooding through her body once more, coursing through her veins, her blood, her heart. It was all she could do to lean forwards and kiss him again, to tighten her fingers through his hair and move her lips against his, devouring his breath. She could never tire of this; his hands rising slightly to curl around her ribs, his mouth sliding against hers with a practiced familiarity. His fervour, his desire, his love—she felt it all in the ferocity of his kiss. A shiver ran down her spine, sudden and uncontrolled, and she tightened her fingers in his hair.

Disarming her with a simple taste.

It was Erik who eventually pulled away, breaths uneven and heavy. Christine blinked hazily, still dizzied by his kiss, his fingers stroking lightly at the underside of her soft curves. His mask was still on—it had dug into her chin when their mouths were pressed together, not as sharp as she would have thought it would be. She studied the stark leather upon his face, moulded perfectly to assume an identical image of his flawless side.

How long had he been working on it? Christine was not naïve enough to believe that he had undertaken such a task without first forming a plan, without hours of countless study. Golden eyes drifted shut as she lifted a hand, lightly tracing the contours of the mask, following perfect, smooth leather.

He'd have needed to expose his deranged side to the light, look at himself in the mirror. And while _she_ had no issue of looking upon his face, she knew he did not feel the same way.

A sudden knock on her door startled them, drawing a sharp breath from him as she leaned away. "Christine!" a voice shouted, light and sweet. "Are you dressed? I wanted to see you before I leave for tonight!"

Erik shifted below her, reaching a hand up to brush through his hair, smoothing back the locks she had combed through. "Meg," he exhaled through gritted teeth, voice roughened by their kiss. He looked thoroughly disgruntled.

God, was he _annoyed_ by the interruption? Such a thought was enough to bring a smile to her lips. The situation was so ridiculous, a reminder of the times when she had been living with Meg, and would constantly have to jump away from Erik whenever she walked into the room. He had been annoyed then as well, but often too flustered to express it.

It was heartwarming to see that certain aspects of their time together would not change, no matter how much he had suffered.

A breathless laugh escaped her lips and she pressed a last, chaste kiss to his lips before rising from his lap. "Two minutes!" she called towards the door, turning back towards Erik. Warmth flooded her gaze as she watched him straighten against the chaise, long fingers reaching up to readjust his mask, left slightly askew from their activities.

If not for the mask, she could almost imagine that nothing had ever happened to him.

Crossing towards her dresser, she fetched the dress she had left out for the night. The weather was a great improvement to her mood; she was free to wear her skirts once more, preferring the flowing material to the restraints of trousers on a winter's day. Changing in front of Erik was no issue—their relationship was no longer strained, and she was all the more glad for the comfort he offered now by his presence. She was well aware of his eyes upon her body as she slipped out of the dressing gown she wore, hiding the slight—if not pleasant—flush that tinged her cheeks.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she turned back towards him, taking in his heated gaze. Of course, she and Erik had crossed the invisible boundary into intimacy twice, but she had never pushed him, nor had he expressed any desire for her, any obvious _want_.

But as she looked at him then, she was fully aware of his want; it was clearly expressed in his parted lips, his firm, unyielding gaze. Her mouth was dry as she requested, "Help me zip up?"

Rising slowly, Erik made his way towards her, boots softly thudding against the insulated floor of her dressing room. Christine suppressed a shudder; she felt the ghost of his fingers upon her back, drifting along her hip to rest on the small of her back as he steadily pulled the zip up. She felt his lips against the side of her neck, warm breath washing her skin for a moment. The feel of his hands still resting by her waist was as calming as it was thrilling.

Clearing her throat, Christine turned in his arms, resting her hands upon his shoulders as she looked up at him. "Meg," she breathed in a reminder, heart racing within her chest as his eyes pierced her, unrelenting.

A ghost of a smile touched her lips at the sight of his gaze turning into one of annoyance. Pressing a quick kiss to his lips, she distangled herself from his grasp and moved to comb through her hair.

As soon as Christine called for her friend to enter, the door opened to admit a grinning Meg. The ballerina was clad in casual clothes for the return home, yet even those had a classic, fashionable style to it—as was expected of her friend. "What a successful closing night!" Meg squealed, rushing forwards to engulf Christine in a tight hug. "You were incredible, of course, and so were all the others—I was speaking to Jammes, who had seen a woman _bawling_ in the audience from the performance! Can you believe that? It happens, of course, but—it's still _brilliant!"_

The latter found herself catching the blonde's excited chatter, nodding along with a wide smile. She was not a stranger to such sights, but the knowledge that her performance had reduced someone to tears was always astonishing. Truly, they had given their best performance yet; she had never felt nor seen the company so fulfilled, so _satisfied_ with what they had achieved.

"… even if we had good reviews—wait, did you happen to read any—?"

"The production received mostly favourable reviews," Erik cut in, to Christine's surprise. She had seen him sink into the solitude of their home for so long, and was unaccustomed to seeing him social. Still, she did not fault him for it—he was slowly—but surely—trying, and she was not about to discourage him in any way.

Meg turned towards her husband, torn from her animated rant and seemingly shocked, as if she'd forgotten he was here with Christine. There was a moment where her eyes flickered to his mask, expression softening momentarily, and Christine worried that she might mention the bandage, might bring up the war. Erik would not want to be reminded of it, at a time like this—he might retreat into himself, if she did.

But her friend merely smiled once more, her gaze amiable. "Erik," she said warmly, recovering quickly from her blunder. "I'm glad you were able to make it! It's good to see you."

Erik moved to stand behind his wife and acknowledged her with a cordial nod. "Likewise, Meg. I hear from Christine you've been doing well."

Meg smiled at the pair, nodding. "Yes, quite well. And I'm glad to see the same of you."

Christine merely slipped her hand in his, turning from her friend to look up at him, her gaze of adoration. "Yes," she said softly, "I'm glad of that too."

Her husband did not react, but she could see the smallest hint of a smile pulling at his lips.

Another knock startled the group, the three turning towards the door. It slid open slightly to reveal Anton peeking in, as if to check if his leading soprano was decent. "Ah, good to see you've changed, Christine," he observed, face breaking into a wide grin as he swung the door fully open. The director walked into the room, his expression one of pleased triumph as he regarded his cast. "I just wanted to extend my congratulations. This run has been fantastic."

Christine shook her head, raising an eyebrow. "It would hardly be anything without you, Anton," she countered, a demure smile upon her lips. "You deserved the applause."

He shrugged, saying wryly, "I'd prefer to receive a bottle of wine." But his eyes shone with warmth, appreciating her acknowledgement all the same. With one last glance at the women, he turned to face Erik. If he had noticed the mask—and, seeing as it was quite obvious, he surely did—he didn't comment on it, to which Christine was grateful for. "And Erik—it's good to see you again, my friend."

"And you, Anton," Erik nodded, hand still within Christine's grasp. "It was truly fantastic. I'm glad to have witnessed it." She watched her husband, pride and tenderness for him rushing through her blood. Unable to voice her admiration in front of the others, she released his hand and moved to wrap her arm around his waist instead, leaning against his side as he spoke. She was glad to see that he didn't protest as he usually did at the display of affection; he merely pulled her closer, to her delight.

She couldn't tell if Anton's widening smile was due to their newfound affection. The director glanced at her momentarily, giving her the smallest of nods—one that clearly displayed his joy for her. After all, the company had seen her gradual climb to happiness with each month that passed; they knew that her marriage had finally found bliss once more.

Anton redirected his gaze towards Erik, continuing from the lengthened pause, "It would have been much better with your direction."

Christine looked up towards her husband to see him blink, his grip around her loosening slightly. "Are you offering me a position, Anton?" he asked, his tone one of clear surprise.

The other man shrugged, lips twisting light-heartedly. "If you want it. We would thrive with you."

"Oh yes, Erik," Meg said eagerly, nodding with approval at the proposal. "This production was brilliant, but it could have been _so_ much better with you." Anton glanced sideways at her in disbelief, and she quickly amended, "Okay, not _too_ much better, but—oh, Anton, you know what I mean. You did an incredible job."

Christine let out a laugh as the other man rolled his eyes, her heart swelling. With his official resignation, she had worried about what Erik might pursue after the war. Of course, he had been in no position to work when he had first returned—she knew of his fears to be in public again, no matter how silent he remained on the subject. But he could not have stayed locked within their home forever; she knew he would become too restless to do so.

Working at the theatre was a fantastic opportunity. She thrilled at the thought that they could spend their days together, that he could surround himself with art and music, could unleash his genius onto the world. Now that he had left the life of tragedy behind, he could truly _thrive_.

Looking up at him, she willed herself to convey her support in her gaze. No matter what he may choose, she would not fault him; she could not force him into anything. He looked at her for a long moment, golden eyes intensely regarding cobalt blue, before replying, "I'll consider it. Thank you."

Anton nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Of course. You'd make a remarkable addition to our company."

"And you'd keep this one happy," Meg added, nodding towards Christine. The brunette pulled away from her husband to give her friend an indignant look.

"Hey!"

"Don't even try to deny it, Christine."

The soprano merely sighed and settled once more into her husband's hold, his arm tightening around her shoulders. "You're one to talk."

Meg merely shrugged, her smile too wide to convey any shame at the subtle mention of her fiancé. Glancing down at her watch, she directed another smile towards the three before saying, "I should go. Dimitri's waiting for me outside."

"Yes," Anton straightened, "I should leave, too. Elena's treating me to a celebratory dinner."

"Sounds wonderful," Christine commented, smiling.

The man nodded, shrugging. "It's a rare treat. She hardly makes me grand meals. I intend not to annoy her by coming home late."

If Christine had looked up at that moment, she would have seen Erik give him a knowing look.

* * *

The walk home was pleasant, with Christine's hand in his and her laughter ringing in the air. Her smile was as radiant as the sun, dark hair piled atop her head in a messy twist. Every inch of her seemed to glow as she enthused about the Bolshoi's closing night, cobalt eyes shining in the dark of night.

He was content to simply watch her, a smile of his own playing on thin lips.

Erik was usually not too keen on displaying their relationship in public—before, he would always insist on maintaining a professional distance whenever they left the house, to which Christine would always respond with a roll of her eyes. Hand-holding was something he abhorred, and her little displays of affection were always met with a blush and hissed mutters.

He could scarcely believe that he had _kissed_ her in front of the entire theatre. Had taken her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers, perfectly aware of their audience. It was uncharacteristic of him—the man he used to be would have recoiled in horror with such a thought. He had thrived in the fact that their relationship was _private_ , that nobody else could witness the beauty of their love, of being with Christine.

Still, he couldn't deny the joy he felt at being out of the flat once more, surrounded by art and music, at seeing his wife _soar_ on stage.

And being able to kiss her, to proclaim to the world that this magnificent, kind, _beautiful_ creature had chosen him—it infused him with a warm tenderness. It was fresh, new, different. A proclamation of victory over the man he used to be, bound by the life of killing and secrets.

It was _freedom_.

At last, they turned into the road of their building. He held the door open for her, letting her lead him to the set of stairs that led to the third floor. It was so familiar to do such a thing—to leave his home for a night at the theatre and return hand in hand with his wife—to live the life of a simple man.

Yes, there had been looks; there had been short glances and long stares from the audience, from passerbys on the streets, from the occasional cast member. There had been whispers about his mask of curiosity, all wanting to know what he hid, _why_ he hid. The prying eyes of society wishing to provoke him once more.

And yet he had found those who treated him as a normal man. Who had brushed off the sight of the mask as inconsequential, choosing to speak to him as they did before, to laugh and banter and partake in conversation.

Perhaps it would not be so difficult to live once again.

Erik closed the door behind them as they entered their flat, lingering for a moment to ensure the lock was turned. Their flat was warm, but not unpleasantly so; he could sense the strange, undeniable feel of _home_ within the air. Golden eyes shut themselves momentarily, his chest expanding in a deep breath.

Christine was standing by the counter when he looked upon her. Dainty hands rummaged through the bag set upon the surface, cobalt eyes trained downwards in concentration. Her hair, piled atop her head, revealed the curve of her slender neck, pale and smooth in the light of the room.

Her forehead was scrunched into a frown as she fished inside her bag, searching for something. "Erik," she asked distractedly, now emptying the bag's contents onto the table, "have you seen my programme? I swear I had it with me—"

She caught sight of the booklet he held up, clutched between spidery fingers. Her frown deepened in confusion, blue eyes lifting to meet gold.

"I took it from you so you could gather your things," he reminded her, thin lips quirking upwards slightly.

"Oh," she responded, though she still sounded puzzled. "I don't remember that."

Though it might seem an inconsequential response to most, he found the smile upon his lips stretching. It seemed so ordinary to pick up after her, to carry all the little accessories she'd forgotten to take. For the longest time, Christine had been so careful around him, stripping away the comfort that her messiness brought about, the familiarity of her inattentiveness. He traced the soft curve of her cheeks with his eyes, the tousled curls framing her delicate face.

A curious smile began to form upon her mouth as he continued to study her. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Golden orbs gazed into electric blue, molten irises holding her eyes for a long moment. There was so much he could have said to her, so much he could have conveyed. The love he felt just by _looking_ at her, by tracing the soft lashes that framed her eyes, the way her pink lips curved when she smiled. He could have had the entire world at his feet and still find himself breathless at the wonder that was Christine.

Instead, he responded simply, "You're beautiful."

The smile upon her lips widened. It was adorable to see her lashes lower demurely, a faint tinge of red flushing her cheeks. She seemed shy, almost abashed at the unexpected compliment—a reaction he hadn't been privy to for the longest time. Erik could have sworn that his heart skipped a beat at the sight.

Had it truly been so long since he had complimented her?

Long legs strode forwards, boots softly sinking into the carpeted floor as he crossed the room. Her lips parted as he stopped in front of her, chin tilted upwards as she gazed up at him, unable to look away. Their chests were separated by mere inches; he could feel the rapid pulse of her heart, beating as wildly as his own. His gaze dropped to her mouth, studying the lines that made up her soft lips.

Soft curves, gentle caresses of bodily features. She truly was every inch as beautiful as her soul was.

"I'm sorry I haven't said it enough," he murmured, eyes flicking back up to meet hers.

A shaky breath escaped her lips as he stared, transfixed.

It was almost unexplainable. For months he had slept beside her, seen her daily as they moved about their home, sharing habits and meals and time. Of course there were tense moments—he despised thinking of their period of avoidance and isolation—but she had still been _there_ , and he had endured. He desired her—he _always_ desired her—but there was never an opportune time, a golden moment between them.

Now, he felt electrified. Every nerve within his body was attuned to her, every cell burning with the desire to touch her, to feel her. He wanted to take her hands in his, to burn his touch into her skin and hear her gasp his name. Perhaps it was the rush of kissing her in front of an entire theatre, or the thrill of being out of their home once more; it intensified his devotion for her, his love.

His attraction. How he _wanted_ her.

"Erik?" The sound of Christine's voice, soft and questioning, jolted him from his thoughts. Golden orbs darted up to meet blue, observing her wide eyes as she peered up at him. The air around them seemed _alive_ , charged with intensity.

A shaky breath escaped his lips, thin fingers drifting upwards to rest idly against her chin. His voice would not escape his throat; he could not speak.

She did not need him to. Wordlessly, she reached up to tangle delicate fingers in his hair and brought his mouth down to hers, kissing him without hesitance.

For months, they had tiptoed around each other, awkward and hesitant with every action and reaction. Christine had still been the only woman for him—would only ever be the only woman for him—but the flame that had always burned brightly seemed to diminish, weakened and faint. There was no doubt of his love, but Erik had wondered in vain if they would ever regain this comfort, this _passion_ again.

And then he had started to _speak_ to her, and she had begun to understand. She'd held him and soothed his mind when nightmares struck, healing every scar with whispered promises of devotion. Slowly, they'd rebuilt the trust that had unintentionally crumbled between them, each brick a foundation to something stronger until he was certain his heart would surely burst, brimming with fierce adoration for his woman.

Christine kissed him and he could no longer remember why he'd wanted distance from her. Every bone within him was burning with the force of her, intoxicated by her scent, the way her lips moved against his. Thin arms snaked around her waist, drawing her body closer; she curved up into him, moulding her body to his as she continued to kiss him slowly.

This was beautiful. This was _right_.

Their lips parted with a shared breath, the taste of her still lingering on his tongue. His eyes remained closed, savouring every caress of her fingers in his hair, dainty digits idly combing through dark, thick tresses. The air around them was still, silent apart from the sound of their breathing, long and uneven.

His eyes felt heavy as they blinked open, taking in the sight of her glazed gaze, cobalt irises deepening to a smoldering blue. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her as she stared at him, arms still curled about his neck, chest still pressed up against his.

"We…" Her voice came out thick and low; she cleared his throat as he suppressed a shudder. "We should get ready for bed. Help me with my dress?"

He heard the silent question she asked, knew then she wanted what he did. The evidence of her own want was obvious in her heated gaze, the faint tug of fingers in his hair, a move that never failed to draw a groan from his lips. "Of course," he responded, dulcet voice reduced to a throaty murmur.

She gave him a faint smile before taking his hand, fingers gentle and deliberate as they intertwined with his.

The walk to their room seemed much longer than usual. Each step she took was light, her slender feet sinking into the floor of their flat as she walked ahead of him. Brown tresses swayed gently from their pinned updo, escaping from the hairband to curl at the nape of her neck, the curve of her jaw. Every aspect of her was delicate and he observed her quietly with bated breaths, marvelling at the creature before him.

She led him down the small corridor, flicking lights off as she turned to where their bedroom resided. His entire body was thrumming with anticipation, of the sure knowledge of what was to come.

It had been so long since they had been together.

Of course, they'd succumbed to their desire a few times. Erik clearly remembered the day he'd touched her on the couch, drawing forth moans and gasps from her lips that fuelled his veins and made his blood race. And his mind _burned_ with the memory of when she'd kissed every inch of his skin, healing his scarred soul with kisses and caresses along his marred, ruined flesh. Both encounters were enough proof to him that she still wanted him in the same way despite his flaws, despite his ruined body.

But they had never truly given into the yearning to make love since his return from Afghanistan, to be _one_ once more. Never had he pushed for it, and she had not encouraged it, either. They had been content to share kisses before bed, to hold each other in sleep, to lightly trace skin without the intimacy of desire.

Christine didn't turn to face him once they were in their room; she stood with her back to him, silently waiting for deft fingers to unzip her dress. The only sign of her nervousness was the shaky rise and fall of delicate shoulders, trembling lighlty with breathless anticipation. It was as if they were about to make love for the first time, two lovers fumbling in the dark with each other.

Taking a breath, he shut his eyes momentarily. This was not new; he knew every inch of Christine's body far better than he knew his own. He knew how to make her cry out with pleasure, how to draw shudders from her frame and leave her begging for more. He knew what she liked and what she didn't, three years of being with her lending to his experience, his expertise of her body.

So why did everything feel _changed?_

She was still standing still when he opened his eyes, waiting for him to pull down the zipper, to help her out of her clothes. Instead, he lifted a hand and reached for the small band that kept her hair up to pulled it free; coffee-coloured curls tumbled down her shoulders, tousled and gorgeously dishevelled. Transfixed, Erik wove long fingers through her soft hair, lightly combing through tangled locks.

A sigh of pleasure escaped her lips, her head tilting back slightly as he continued to brush through her hair. Christine had always enjoyed having him play with her hair; she often explained that the act was soothing, just as he found comfort when she combed her fingers through his thick tresses. The simple gesture was enough to relax his tense muscles, to remind him that he was with _her_.

This was Christine, his closest confidant, his _wife_. There was nothing to fear in being intimate with her.

His fingers drifted lower, gently gathering heavy locks to drape over one shoulder. Holding his breath, he allowed his hand to pull the zipper down, revealing inch by inch of her smooth skin to his gaze. He wondered if she, too, had stopped breathing; her shoulders were still, if not trembling slightly as his hand moved lower, finally stopping at the curve of her waist.

His eyes lingered on her skin for a long moment, fingers itching to touch. He swallowed and lifted his gaze. "Christine," he said, trying to ignore the tremble in his voice, "do you want me to…" He lifted his hand to rest upon her shoulder, thumb brushing the strap of her dress.

Christine let out a breath of, "Yes," and he nodded to himself.

Taking a breath, he slowly slipped the strap from her shoulder, golden gaze following the thin material as it moved down the fall of her lithe arm. Her skin looked as smooth as satin, bare and inviting to be touched, to be kissed. Her every limb was graceful, divine, and this time he did not hesitate to step forwards and lower his head, to kiss the curve of her neck.

Erik could feel the sigh of pleasure she let out, the light press of her back against his chest, warm flesh separated by material so thin. Without looking he knew she had closed her eyes, could almost picture the slight part of her lips as her head fell back against his shoulder. The taste of her was addicting; he mouthed at her pulse, confident in the knowledge that she would let out a moan and feeling recklessly thrilled when she did. The strap of her dress fell down her other shoulder, the material falling to reveal the swell of her breasts within her bra, held up only by his arms around her stomach.

A delicate hand grasped his, slowly dragging it up her body and placing it over her breast.

He broke away from her neck, breathing heavily against her skin. Of course he was aware of what she wanted—he would be blind to ignore what they both truly desired. Every glance they shared seemed heated, their breaths bated since the moment she had pulled him into her dressing room. She _wanted_ him; he was sure of it.

But he needed to know, needed to hear the words from her lips.

"Christine," he breathed, "are you sure?" Cautiously, he pressed his masked cheek against her smooth one, a reminder of what she was kissing.

She did not answer for a moment, and he waited anxiously in the silence. Would she still want to be with a disfigured man, to gaze upon his face while they made love?

Would she not be disgusted?

Christine slowly loosened herself from his embrace, prying his arms from around her waist and turning to face him. Perhaps he should have felt more dejection if not for the fact that her dress had fallen from her body, in a pile by her feet.

Unbidden, Erik's gaze dropped to stare at her half-dressed body. Every aspect of her was toned and lightly muscled from years of ballet. Her stomach was flat, her navy blue bra enticingly teasing at curve of her cleavage. He had seen her undress in front of him countless times, had been reintroduced to the image of her half-dressed during the past two months, yet his lips still parted, his mouth going dry.

Had she any notion of how utterly _tempting_ she was? Everything about her made his senses wild with want, his ache for her only growing with each passing second.

The slight pressure of her finger lifted his chin, tilting his face upwards to meet rich cobalt irises. Holding his gaze, Christine nodded slowly.

"Yes, Erik," she murmured, dragging her fingers down his neck to rest at the collar of his shirt. He barely suppressed a shudder. "I'm sure. Are you?"

He merely kissed her in reply.

While their previous kiss was soft and slow, this held a newfound urgency, a deeper passion. Her fingers began to undo the buttons of his shirt, and though his heart thudded wildly in his chest he did not feel scared; the memory of her kisses against his skin filled him with warmth, a reminder of her love.

She _loved_ him—she had made it clear over the course of their time together. She had been patient, understanding; she was everything he could have asked for, everything he could possibly ever want.

It was truly remarkable how she—beautiful, sweet, _kind_ Christine—could have had _anyone_ , and she had chosen him.

Wandering hands, heated touches—she was everywhere and everything, all at once. The hand she had placed upon her breast softly stroked at her skin, thrumming and warm beneath the material of her bra; she gasped into their kiss as his thumb scraped the peak of her breast, opening her mouth to him. The slight trace of her tongue against his drew a shiver from him, skeletal fingers seeking out her hips, pulling her closer to him.

And then her hands were flying down his torso, parting his shirt to expose the bony cage of his chest to the cool air. He did not discourage her as she slipped his shirt down his shoulders, taking his hands away from her body for a moment to aid her. Her hands roamed freely about his chest, tracing over every scar, brushing the markings on his back.

Each brush of fingers was a healing touch, burning within his body and settling his senses aflame. How could he have thought he could live without this, without _her?_ The very idea seemed ludicrous, unbearable.

She was the very air he breathed.

Lips still moving against his, hands still tangled in his hair, Christine began to walk backwards towards the bed, pulling him with her. But instead of falling back against it and tugging him to lie above her, she maneuvred around so that Erik sat upon the mattress with her standing between his legs. Her hair was mussed and tangled, her lips swollen and eyes glazed as she gazed down at him, and he found that he could not have looked away from her even if he had tried to.

Her chest was heaving with uneven breaths as she stared down at him, fingers gently stroking through his dark locks. "I'm yours," she breathed, leaning into him; Erik grasped at her hips as she climbed atop him, knees resting on either side of his thighs. Another gasp left her throat when he began to trail his lips down the side of her jaw, her fingers tightening in his hair and drawing a groan from his lips.

"Mine," he agreed, velvet voice husky with desire as he kissed her throat, her collarbone, her chest. Long fingers snaked to her back, undoing the clasp of her bra with practiced ease. She shook it off and he tossed it aside, immediately ducking his head and closing his lips around a breast.

A loose cry of his name escaped her lips, her back arching towards him. The fingers combing through his hair were clutching at his scalp now, pulling in ways that drove him mad with desire.

At the feel of her fingers slipping under the ties of his mask, however, he froze. The thin string was knotted by the base of his scalp, holding the mask in place even if their kissing had knocked it askew. The cool, impassive leather hadn't been in the way, hadn't prevented him from kissing her—yet he knew what she would ask.

Christine craved intimacy, vulnerability, and a small, yearning part of him desired it too. Desired to have his mangled face touched by her wandering fingers, to be able to look into her eyes as he moved within her and see nothing but her love. He _wanted_ to be bare before her.

And yet he didn't.

It was senseless, when he thought about it; Christine had grown well-accustomed to seeing his bare face over the past few weeks. In fact, she had _insisted_ upon it, telling him firmly that it did not matter to her. She kissed his twisted cheek when they sat together for breakfast, smiled at him without the trace of a flinch whenever he looked at her with his face uncovered. He was comfortable enough around her to let her see.

But somehow, this was different. They were going to _make love_. He had not been beautiful before the war, but he had not been ugly, either; she hadn't needed to stare at his gross visage as their bodies moved together. It had been beautiful, ethereal, divine.

"Erik," Christine said above him, but he did not lift his head, keeping it bowed between her breasts. His heart was still pounding wildly from their heated kisses, his breaths warm and deep against her skin. "Erik," she repeated, this time with more urgency.

He felt her fingers curl into his hair, forcing him to lift his chin up. Golden eyes were tightly shut, breaths coming out bated and unsteady. She would surely be unhappy, would surely be disappointed in him—he didn't want to see it.

"Erik," he heard her say softly, "open your eyes. Please, darling—look at me."

What he saw left him breathless. She stared at him, blue eyes wide, open, honest. The depth of her love was reflected in her gaze, every inch of her devotion gathered into a single look. Erik's could not tear his eyes from hers, could not bear to look away.

A small smile graced her lips as her fingers lightly combed through dark hair, gentle and comforting. "I don't care what you look like, Erik," she reminded him softly. "I love _you_ , not your appearance."

He exhaled shakily. "Christine," he said pleadingly, smooth dulcet tone ragged and hoarse.

"Don't let them come between us, baby," she whispered, pressing her temple to his. He could taste her breath on his lips, could feel her warmth flooding through his veins. "They'll never come between us again. It's you and me, Erik, and I love you."

"Christine," he breathed.

He did not protest as she slipped the mask off his face, leaving his disfigurement uncovered. She let him turn them over, gazing up at him with wide, soulful eyes as he propped himself above her. Tousled locks splayed across the pillow, creating a halo of curls framing her delicate face. She was an angel— _his_ angel.

Their movements were slow and gentle, fingers caressing skin, lips seeking lips. Clothes were shed with tender touches, wandering hands unfastening material and seeking warmth. She traced every crevice and dip of his face, expression still and soft as she studied his features without a trace of fear reflected in her eyes. He was breathless, he was astounded; he pressed his lips to hers and breathed her into his lungs, sharing different heartbeats.

She was beautiful, she was brave, and she was _his_. There was no label to this nameless feeling, this strange, exotic _wonder_ that filled him every time he looked at her. Each breath was for her, each sigh a melodious symphony in the music of their making.

Erik swept a hand down her body, lightly skimming her breasts, hips, waist. Her whimper resounded in the air as long fingers skimmed over her wetness, lightly tracing along the length of her, triggering spots that made her shiver. Head digging into the pillow, back lifting in a graceful arch against him, she was impossibly alluring in every possible way.

He could not stop thinking it, but she was beautiful. The way her curls spilled across the pillow, her lips parted and eyes shut, soft moans escaping her throat as his fingers moved against her, _within_ her—he drank the sight of her in, his own breathing growing heavy.

"Erik," she gasped, blinking cobalt eyes open, her gaze hazy and unfocused. "Erik—Erik, _please."_

He understood without explanation. A sigh left her throat as he pulled his hand away and he relished at the sound, at the knowledge that she wanted this just as badly as he.

Their moans lingered in the air as they at last became one, bodies taking and fusing, fingers digging into skin. A shuddering breath left his frame at the feeling of being within her, encompassed by her, swallowed whole. _This_ was what he had been craving; this mindless intimacy, her lips pressed to his throat to muffle her whimpers.

He began to move in her, a slow circle of hips pressing against hips. A surge of scalding hot _desire_ washed through his bones as he felt her clutch at his shoulders, her slender legs weaving around his waist. Here and now, he felt as he used to feel; able to share such closeness with her and make her tremble with his body. Memories of Afghanistan, of the war and his disfigurement were easily forgotten when she was with him, when they could share in this moment of ecstasy.

He felt alive, whole, _complete_ once again.

"Erik," he heard Christine say, and did not realise he had closed his eyes until he had to open them. Her adoring gaze rendered him breathless, her fingers tenderly cupping his cheeks. "Erik," she repeated in a sigh, and he felt the small smile upon her lips as he leaned down to catch her mouth, to swallow her breath.

"I love you," he groaned as he moved within her, unable to say anything but. She was all around him, breathing his scent and swallowing his voice with fevered kisses pressed insistently to thin lips, hot and heady. His blood rushed through his veins, loud and pounding in his ears, heartbeat rapidly thudding against his chest with adrenaline and arousal.

Electrified senses focused on her and only her, enraptured by the sound of her broken moans as they began to claw for _more_. She clutched at him with a greater urgency and he pressed his mouth to her neck, wanting to leave marks upon her skin as he had done so countless times before. He _wanted_ this power over her body, _wanted_ to know that he could reduce her to a quivering mess just as she could do to him. It was prevalent in the loose cries she let out, the heavy groans his rich tenor wove.

Here and now, he was not disfigured, not scarred. He hadn't lost himself within the murky clouds of memories that could never bring him piece. He was simply a man making love to the woman he adored, two souls lost within each other.

He was with Christine, and she was enough to last him a lifetime.

God, he loved her, he loved her, he _loved_ her.

She sobbed his name when she climaxed, body trembling beneath his as scrambling fingers fisted at his scalp, drawing a stifled cry from his throat. The feeling of her inner walls tightly squeezing around him spurred on his own release, sending him gasping into the curve of her neck as he stilled within her. He couldn't feel anything but _her_ —her teeth lightly digging into the curve of his neck, her lean legs tensing around his hips, her voice calling out for him. Everything was spinning, his mind a flurry of intoxicated haziness and lips mindlessly chanting a mantra of _Christine, Christine, Christine_.

And when she finally eased him to lie back against the bed, her warm, naked body curling against his, Erik knew that they would pull through.

* * *

The bed was still warm when Christine woke.

Sunlight was peeking through the curtains, illuminating the bedroom with a soft glow. The summer air was pleasantly warm, a welcome contrast to the cold nights of only a few months ago. The sound of a busy city could be faintly heard; the purr of cars rushing by, the vague chatter of pedestrians walking along the sidewalk.

Cobalt eyes blinked open, still heavy from sleep. A yawn escaped her throat as she stretched, slender back arching in a graceful arc. Immediately, she felt the lace of a familiar ache in her bones, her body sore yet not unpleasantly so—and recalled the previous night.

A small smile touched her lips, her head falling back onto the pillow with a contented sigh.

 _Erik_.

Last night had been beyond perfect, a memory she would cherish for years to come. To have him attend her final performance in a role that brought her joy each night and feel his unrestrained kiss when she took her bows—and then to come home and feel his lips upon her skin, his strong arms tracing her body, drawing breathless cries of his name from her throat...

She had stared at his bare face, blue eyes following every unnatural dip of skin and raised flesh, and thought him the most beautiful man alive. It was beautiful. _He_ was beautiful.

Another sigh fell from her lips. It was clear that Erik was uncomfortable with his appearance—even though he had begun to spend time with her without his face covered, he still flinched away from mirrors, still stared at their framed wedding picture as if haunted. Christine would have taken it down if not for the fact that he had protested; it had been the happiest day of their lives, after all, and he did not want something as simple as his accursed _ugliness_ to destroy that memory.

The brunette grimaced at the word. She had been shocked—no, _repulsed_ —at initially seeing his face, yes, but she had never once thought him ugly. Tragically disfigured, perhaps, but not ugly. In fact, she found him as beautiful as ever to have experienced such trauma and still stand beside her.

And last night, she had definitely found him to be the most _desirable_ man alive.

Everything felt light, everything felt perfect. Finally— _finally_ —they could have peace.

The woman turned onto her side, expecting to find her husband still asleep beside her. A languid purr sounded from her throat, a dainty hand reaching out to rest upon his torso.

Instead she found an empty bed.

A frown touched her temple. He couldn't have left—she had enough confidence to be sure that he loved her, that he wouldn't pack up and go. And after the intimacy they had shared last night, she _knew_ he wouldn't possess anymore doubt. Perhaps he was in the kitchen, preparing a meal—yes, that was like Erik, always acting as the perfect husband—

She caught sight of the blankets still mussed, pillow flattened where his head should have been. The covers were still warm.

He hadn't been gone long, then.

She rose from the bed, swinging dainty legs over the side of the mattress and pressing her feet into the ground. Her nude body seemed to glow in the sunlight, coffee-coloured curls unkept and messy from Erik's fingers in her hair. The shirt he had worn the night before was lying on a chair, and she let out a small laugh of fond exasperation.

Last night had seen their clothes carelessly abandoned in piles upon the floor, but she wasn't surprised that he had tidied up a little before leaving the room. Of _course_ he would—her ever-organised husband. Her heart filled with love for him.

The shirt barely grazed her upper thighs when she put it on, leaving her slender legs mostly bare, and perhaps she should have blushed rather than smirked at the thought of her husband openly staring.

Light, padded steps towards the door and she was out in the small corridor. It was silent; she quietly closed the bedroom door behind her, a delicate hand reaching up to gather wild curls to fall over her back.

Then she heard it: a small, faint _meow_. The frown returned to her forehead once more, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

Was there a _cat_ in their home? Their flat was three floors up, the door firmly shut last she checked. A cat couldn't have snuck into their home.

Bewildered, Christine followed the sound with light footsteps, making the short walk through their little hallway to the living room. The sight that greeted her both increased her confusion and melted her heart.

Erik was sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, his attention focused on a young kitten perched upon his lap. A small, used towel was wrapped around its tiny body, cocooning it like a blanket. He seemed all too large compared to the animal; his long limbs easily engulfed the kitten, the little bundle hardly noticeable if it wasn't making any noises.

"She was drowning," he murmured quietly, gaze still focused on the small kitten. Christine took a step forwards, unsurprised that he had heard her enter the room. "I took a walk earlier and found her in the river. She's shivering."

Christine's expression softened, heart glowing with love for this man. Her husband had always taken interest in animals, insisting that they were intelligent creatures who did not bother with much apart from a human's ability to care for them. He'd always been fond of dogs, in particular—she vaguely recalled him mentioning a stray dog with golden fur journeying with him across Europe.

This love for animals did not come with an explanation, but she hadn't needed one. For a man who'd been alone most his life, a genuine companion who did not use him for his skills should have been expected.

She softly walked to where he was sitting, carefully lowering herself onto the floor beside him to ensure she did not scare the kitten. Blue eyes gazed upon the small cat in Erik's arms; a closer look showed streaks of brown fur peeking from beneath the towel, light and dark blending around its tiny face.

"We can give her a bath," she said softly, "make sure she's cleaned up. What about her mother?"

Erik shook his head, stroking a thumb along the kitten's temple. It gave out a faint meow, blinking to reveal startling grey orbs. She felt her husband tense beside her momentarily, and glanced at him.

"What's wrong?" she frowned.

Golden eyes were fixated upon grey, intensely studying the feline's face. "Nothing," he said finally, "just—her eyes reminded me of someone I knew."

She felt as if there was more to his words, but the sight of his calm demeanour and relaxed shoulders prompted her to leave the subject be. Instead, she kept her eyes on him, watching as he gently handled the cat with light scratches to its chin, a large hand smoothing over its small body to instil some warmth.

He'd known a violent life, but he could be gentle, he could _love_. She could see it as he stroked the kitten's brown fur.

"Do you want to keep her?" she asked.

Golden eyes flicked up to meet hers. "Yes," he said slowly, gauging for her reaction. "I think so. She has nowhere to go."

They remained in silence for a moment, Christine watching as he carefully pet the tiny kitten. Grey eyes were shut despite the small, quick breaths that shook its body, and she thought she might have heard it purr even with the constant shivering.

"Have you thought of a name?" she eventually asked.

Erik was silent for a long moment before answering, "Ayesha. Her name is Ayesha."

* * *

 **A/N:** Leave a review, let me know what you think! As mentioned before, just the epilogue to conclude this fic, and we're done!


	23. Epilogue

**A/N:** Hello again! First off, I'd like to apologise for my long hiatus. I know I promised an epilogue to this story, and I had always fully intended to deliver that, but I suppose life happened.

This has been sitting untouched in my drafts for the longest time, and I've finally come around to finish it. Please excuse any typos/errors; I haven't written for the longest time.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, After the Storm, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

* * *

 _And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears,_

 _And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears._

 _Get over your hill and see what you find there,_

 _With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair._

* * *

 _Ten years later_

The sky is painted orange, a mix of reds and yellows blending in the slow light. Further ahead, the vague forms of mountains, each peak rising higher than the last, fading behind mist, the haze of clouds. But, closer still, a hill that rises from the edges of a forest, standing silent and lonely. Rows upon rows of stone stand from the ground, the inscriptions upon them weathered and vague; the wind whispers, brushing the ground and lifting tiny specks into the air, blowing away with the breeze.

In the distance, a figure of a man to forms from the mist. Each step forwards is a stride, an intent. As he nears, more of him is seen: the faint scruff of beard forming on a darkened chin, the loosened tie that hangs around his neck, the shirtsleeves that have been rolled up to expose fit, tan arms. A bunch of yellow poppies are gathered in hand, tightly grasped within clutching fingers.

The figure stops by one of the stones towards the edges, kneeling down before it. His dark head bows, lips parting in a silent prayer carried by the wind. The ground beneath his feet listens, hears.

Hazel eyes lift as the man extends his arm, branding the grave with bright flowers. They stop short, however, at the sight of another—a single white chrysanthemum, laying in the middle of the smoothened pile of dirt.

The man's brows furrowed in confusion. Others had left flowers, at first; when the dirt had just settled and was still fresh, there had been many flowers. The hill had been coloured with white, pink, blue—every shade imaginable to a blossom of life within the dead. But it had been years since the war had ended.

Perplexed, he lowers the golden flowers to the ground, slowly rising to his feet. Amidst a sea of yellow the white chrysanthemum lies proud and untouched, pure in its simplicity.

Perhaps Reza would ask his mother if she had left it there.

One long, last look upon the weathered grave of his father, and he turns away. Strides forwards past the vast expanse of land, with bodies scattered beneath and covered by hardened ground. Soldiers littered below mud and coarsened dirt; an ever-present reminder of the horrors that occurred. He steps ahead and does not look back.

The walk to the village is familiar, the grass and dried mud sinking beneath black shoes. He has made this trek many times since moving out into the city, each week another journey to his past.

The years he'd lived away from the village are ones that hold the sharpest clarity. Moving into the city, seeking refuge within homes and families. Being introduced to a new school, meeting new faces that grew brighter as each year passed. The war ending—a final, devastating triumph—and peace, at last.

Peace had not lasted—it never did—but it became easier to breathe. And when his mother had decided to finally return to the home that had perished in the fire, he had not gone with her. He did not want to go back to the house that had nearly burnt him alive.

The forests are not as dark, now; the trees do not stand as tall, some having burnt to the ground from the fire of so many years ago. Light shines through what must have been a shadowy walk, clearing the path and illuminating the way through. He follows its track and emerges into the familiar clearing.

From the little he remembers of living in the village, it seems to be the same. There are small alterations, of course: the wooden huts are sturdier, infused with brick and stone; the fountains set up in various corners, an ever-present memory of the flames that had once engulfed everything whole. The children still laugh and play, their shirts rolled up as they run in circles until their mothers and fathers return from the marketplace with baskets and stern expressions. The sound of chickens in a coop, goats grazing within fences.

Civilisations change, but this does not.

A few faces greet him as he walks past—old friends of his mother, his father. He inclines his head politely, never ceasing the path to the secluded house in the back. It is not as big—his mother never did favour large spaces—and not as tall, but it is home, all the same.

It is as if war has never touched this small scrape of land. The children will never know what it means to suffer, to watch a loved one die.

A weary sigh escapes the young man's lips, not having realised he'd paused for reflection. Rough fingers comb through his uneven hair as hazel eyes darted towards the direction of a humble, worn-down home.

And widened at the sight of a figure he thought to be long gone.

* * *

He never wondered what had happened to the little village he had left behind.

Of course, there were always thoughts of Khan that floated through his mind; memories of the man's last moments, replaying ceaselessly. He pondered over the woman, too, and her curious son—did they manage to escape? Could it be that they were still running, still hiding from those who sought to have them killed? Were they safe?

So many questions left unanswered—until now.

A slight pressure on his hand, and he glances back towards the curly-haired woman beside him. Christine smiles, a slight upturn of pink lips. "It's nice here," she comments, following his initial gaze to look out the window. A man and child are seen chatting animatedly ahead of them, their voices muffled by the thick build of the house. "Peaceful," she continues, "Nothing like the city."

"Yes," he agrees, and sighs as she comfortingly slips her arm around his waist. "It is. Too hot for my liking, though."

She glances up at him with a raised brow, her eyes both amused and disapproving. He merely shrugs, pressing a kiss to her soft, dark curls. Being here with her is safe, comforting—nothing compared to his memories of this place. He's glad she agreed to make the visit with him.

"Erik?" comes a voice from behind them, pulling him from his thoughts. He turns to face a dark-skinned woman, her eyes grey and hair gathered in a neat braid. She holds two glasses in one hand, held outwards towards the couple as an offer.

He strides towards her and takes the glass, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you, Rookheeya."

Christine takes the other glass, thanking their host graciously with a smile. "We were just talking about how peaceful it is, here," she says to the woman.

"Yes," is the only answer that is given, though the dark shadows under grey eyes are unable to conceal a deep sorrow. Even now, there is the feeling of someone missing. He cannot fault her; he aches for her loss, too.

"Mama! Papa!"

They are interrupted by a wild, dark-haired girl, running into the room to her parents. She grins up at the husband and wife, showing a missing tooth. "Papa, Naina let me play with her goat!" she recounts excitedly, tugging at his hand. "It was soft, and cute, and she let me pet it! Can we have one?"

Christine laughs, shaking her head as Erik lifts the girl into his arms, pressing his lips to her curls (that are so much like her mother's, he muses). "I don't think a goat would like our house, Ana. It's too small."

"And we have no garden for it to stay in," Erik supplies. The girl's attentive eyes meet his own, a mirror of his golden orbs. He tenderly brushes a strand of hair away from her face, continuing, "You'd have to let it stay in your room."

Ana makes a face, and both mothers laugh. "She's a pretty little girl," Rookheeya observes as his wife tugs at his arm, reaching upwards to brush a speck of dirt off his daughter's cheek. "How old are you, Ana?" she asks.

Erik glances at his daughter, silently urging her to answer the question. Ana merely looks at him for a long moment, the wide, attentive eyes of a child unwilling to speak to someone unfamiliar, before turning to look at Rookheeya. "Four," she answers shyly, lifting four fingers up as proof.

"Five in three months," Erik adds, pressing another kiss to his daughter's cheek. The girl merely slides her arms around his neck, letting out a loud yawn.

The grey-eyed woman smiles, sighing. "I'm sorry to hear of your loss," she says quietly, gaze solemnly moving from Erik to Christine's. "How old was he?"

"Two," Christine answers, just as quietly. Their first child had been born with a weak heart, and the wounds of losing him were still fresh. The years before they'd had Ana were lifeless, almost; Erik and Christine had returned from the Bolshoi day after day with sullen expressions, too tired to think of mending their pierced family. If not for Ana, he was certain they would have sunk into a deep depression.

But their daughter is here, in his arms, perfectly healthy and ready to fall asleep. Running around outside must have tired her greatly. He glances at his watch before turning towards Christine, who nods.

"I think it's best that we leave first," his wife says apologetically, moving to embrace Rookheeya. "It's a shame we didn't manage to catch Reza. Erik was keen to see him, and I would have loved to meet him."

Rookheeya nods, an apology in her tired smile. "Yes, he's busy with his new job in the city. Always late to visit his mother. But he's happy."

"That's what matters," Erik says gravely. Rookheeya merely nods at him.

"Thank you for coming," she says as she leads them to the door, opening it for them. A welcome mat lies outside the door frame; it relieves him to see it weathered, telling of many visitors that call on the Khans. "It's good to see you again, Erik. Nadir would have been glad to know that you are doing well."

"As well as I can be," he concedes. With his wife by his side and daughter in his arms, he cannot be well enough.

Rookheeya gives him a faint smile, a nod, and bids them farewell.

The little family stays silent as they walk through the small courtyard, standing out against the tanned folk who eye them curiously as they pass. One of the children—a dark-haired girl who stands beside a little goat—tentatively lifts a hand, presumedly waving at Ana. Sure enough, Erik feels his daughter lift her head sleepily and wave back, her deep yawn breathed into his ear. A small smile tugs at his lips. How simple it must be to live a child's life and bond over the bleats of a goat.

Taking one last look at the village, his mind seeks to memorise the rebuilt huts—though they resemble proper houses, now—and the faces that stare back at him. Faces that live in peace, away from the fighting and bloodshed they had once been witness to. Erik looks long and hard, then turns away.

And sees hazel eyes, bright and piercing, an identical match to the man who had died for him.

Christine stops as he does, her gaze questioning as he stares at the figure ahead of them. He is more stocky than his father was, and far more unkept; his shirt is untucked and dark hair ruffled and uneven. Still, Erik remembers those eyes—they had gazed up at him before the boy in question had engulfed him in a tight embrace.

"Reza," he hears Christine breathe beside him, and the sound of that name brings a tinge of comfort.

He watches as those hazel eyes hover over the image of his family, following the line of his wife's arm that rests loosely against his back, his daughter's head tucked against his shoulder. Erik wonders if he feels resentment—after all, the Soviet man now has what the other did, long before the war had started.

Instead, the man fixes his gaze back on him, hard and resolute. Reza nods, and Erik nods back at him. They do not speak; there is nothing to say.

The sky fades into a myriad of reds and blues, setting over the darkening sky as it would do tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that, and for many tomorrows to come.

* * *

 **A/N:** Well, that's it! It's all over, and what a journey it's been.

I want to thank everyone who's played a role in helping me create this story. Everyone who's left supportive reviews to those who have discussed possible plot lines in my inbox, to those who would just drop me an excited message whenever a new chapter was posted. Every single one of you has motivated me to make this happen and I couldn't be more proud of the finished product.

This will probably be my last published fanfic in a while, I'm afraid. My muse has shifted away from fiction, lately, but thank you for keeping up with my wandering imagination up until now.

I can't possibly list out all the people who have influenced this piece, but know that I appreciate every single one of you who has taken the time to read this to the end. Thank you.

 **Side note for those following _The Undone, The Divine_** **:** I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be updating this story for the simple reason that I don't feel as comfortable writing smut as I used to before :( I regret it, but I don't see myself continuing this story anytime soon, perhaps not at all.

Have a lovely day ahead of you, everyone, and I hope you've enjoyed _After the Storm!_


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